


Adrenaline Rush

by Lightning_Strikes_Again



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alfor vs. Zarkon rivalry, Appearances from Merla (DotU character not VLD), Appearances from Team Voltron, Appearances from Zethrid Ezor and Acxa, Badass!Allura, Badass!Lotor, F/M, Family Problems, Galra Tech, Lotor in tight leather pants, Lotura - Freeform, Pro stock motorcycles, Racing culture, References to Abuse, References to Dubious Consent, Sincline Racing, Smoker bad boy mechanic!Lotor, Some Merla/Lotor, Some crude language and sexuality, Toxic Relationships, Zonerva, character injury, human!AU, quintessence-injected madness, team voltron - Freeform, top fuel dragsters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-07-04 06:58:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 45,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15836133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightning_Strikes_Again/pseuds/Lightning_Strikes_Again
Summary: Human AU: Lotor—the leather-clad heartthrob of the international drag racing competition—is a pro stock biker, undefeated with his Sincline motorcycles. Allura is a rising star in the top fuel dragster circuit, taking up her father’s mantle after his fiery death during a race with quintessence-injected fuel.Allura knows racing can be lethal. But between competing against her father’s rival and once-friend, Zarkon, and dealing with his arrogant son Lotor, she barely has time to consider the types of danger she’s in.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone! Thanks for joining me in my first human!Lotura fic. I have a big love for drag racing, with its (dangerously) powerful machines, so I thought it would be fun to translate Lotura into this environment. 
> 
> As a quick note, a staging light for a drag race is called a “Christmas tree.” So I just thought I’d throw that out in case the term would surprise anyone, haha. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

The announcer’s voice echoed over the grandstands. “And _welcome_ to the 75 th annual drag racing international competition. It’s a beautiful day here in sunny Olkari City, with today’s qualification rounds only just getting started! I’m your host, Bob, and I’m sitting here in Lookout Tower with my good friend and award-winning sportscaster, Bii-Boh-Bi. Say hi, Bii.”

The sportscaster spoke a different language, translating Bob’s words. A cheer went up, with several people attempting to do a wave across the grandstands.

Bob jumped back in, with Bii-Boh-Bi flawlessly translating in real-time. “We’re getting the drag strip ready for our first round of pro stock qualifications—” and at that time, the two, sleek lanes of asphalt between the grandstands were empty, save for the sweeper vehicles polishing them— “but grab your seat now to get a good view! Races start in ten.”

The large, digital scoreboards on the far end of the quarter-mile, two-lane drag strip were silent, standing tall in the soft wind of the morning.

Large crowds of people from all walks of life milled about together, grabbing lemonade shakeups and deep-fried foods. Children sat atop the shoulders of their fathers and in the arms of their mothers, wearing noise-cancelling headphones. Most of the adults had ear plugs hanging around their necks, their laughter raising up to the heavens, sunglasses and cameras glimmering in the light.

Behind the drag strip burnout box, the racers were beginning to line up in their respective rows. Large trucks towed in the pro stock bikes—sleek, colorful motorcycles with thick pipes, even thicker tires, and an extended stabilization frame complete with wheelie bars.

Beyond them were the top fuel rail dragsters. And that was where one Allura Singh jumped out of a Team Voltron truck, pulling off her sunglasses as she stared out at the massive grandstand. “Wow,” she breathed, her blue and purple eyes widening. The soft wind blew back some of the flyaways of her white hair. Her lightly accented voice softened in awe. “Coran—look at all the people!”

She was already in her flame-retardant racing suit, which sported the famous Team Voltron “V” insignia in pink against her white uniform. The logos of her many sponsors ran down her back and shoulders.

A large hand came to rest on her shoulder, and a bright, male voice exclaimed, “Now, don’t you worry about the crowds. You’re the Princess, after all. They’ve loved you in every city you’ve raced!”

She did not turn around but instead placed her hand over Coran’s. “Thank you,” she said softly. Her heart was singing in joy and melancholy. “But it’s not that—it’s that we’re finally _here_. We’re here at the _international_ _championships_.”

The Hawaiian-shirt-wearing man murmured to her, “You’ve worked hard to get here. Your father would be so proud of you.”

“I hope so,” Allura whispered, staring out still at all of the families. The last time her father had been alive, he had stood in a similar place as her, wearing his red Voltron motor suit and staring out at the same grandstands. She chilled beneath her suit despite the warmth of the summer sun.

The Olkari City International Championships was the only title that Alfor “The King” Singh had failed to obtain, but Allura had dreams of adding that trophy to the great memorial of his accomplishments.

This was it. 

This was finally it.

She turned around suddenly, eyeing Coran hard. “I’m going to win the title,” she told him. “And I’m going to win it for him.”

Coran patted her shoulder. “And I believe you can!” But then he pulled back, twisting the end of his red mustache. He looked somewhat mischievous as he winked. “Just don’t go around to the bars at night like that one time in—”

“—That will _not_ happen again,” she promised, quickly cutting him off with a nervous laugh. The bars near the drag strip tended to attract a rough crowd, and she’d ended up in a drinking competition with one of her racing peers, only to attend the next morning’s rounds with the worst hangover in her entire existence. She had just barely qualified to continue to the next round. Her only saving grace was that her competition had been just as hungover as she’d been.

“I sure _hope_ it won’t happen again, especially around this crowd,” called out an anxious, sweet voice. Her teammate and logistics manager, Romelle, jumped out of the truck, looking preoccupied with a clipboard in her hand. She wore a team Voltron shirt, with her long, blonde hair pulled up in a ponytail. Her violet eyes narrowed at her clipboard as she bit her lip in anxious thought. “Now, according to the schedule, your first qualification run isn’t for forty minutes, so that gives us just enough time to unload, recheck tires, and maybe get a photo with the top five sponsors this year, along with _Top Fuel Magazine_.”  

Allura dared to groan. “More photos? My cheeks hurt from being so constantly diplomatic.”

“But you’re so good at it, princess,” teased Coran.

“Oh, please,” she pouted, her eyes wide with pleading innocence. “I’d rather not spend my morning wining and dining the media.” At that time, there was already a swell of voices raising with increasing fervor in the distance. The source of the noise was up ahead, closer to the burnout box. She waved her hand to it. “Can we not leave such things to the other racers?” 

And there, at the front of the pro stock motorcycles, was a sleek truck with the stark script of _Sincline Racing_ embossed in silver. A man was stepping out of it, carelessly holding a lit cigarette in one hand and pulling off dark sunglasses with the other. He was tall, his lithe body covered in a black, skin-tight motor suit save for his dark-skinned face and neck. The logos of his many sponsors proudly stretched across his shoulders, bleeding into the orange and blue lines accenting his suit.

Romelle’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Ugh. Of all the people I _didn’t_ want to see today, I swear—"

Signature, long white hair streamed freely down his back and shoulders. And then he smiled, his handsome face splitting in a way that inspired the crowd of groupies to begin snapping more pictures and raising their pens for signatures. A few of them were trying to climb over the safety fence.

_“Oh my god, oh my god—Lotor! Lotor Dalir!”_

_“Look this way!”_

_“Please sign my arm!”_

_“Marry me!”_

_“I want to have your babies!”_

Allura’s full lips flattened with a grimace as she watched the man wave, his smile stretching even wider at the fans. She saw his mouth move but could not hear his response—all she saw was the fan who’d screamed _I want to have your babies_ suddenly swooning in the sun, falling back into the arms of one wide-eyed reporter. 

Coran hummed as he scratched his chin. “Ah, yes, Lotor Dalir. I haven’t seen him in person for over a decade, back when Zarkon and your father were racing together.” His expression twisted with an uncomfortable nervousness. “It’s best to stay away from him, Allura.”  

“Not a problem,” she said dryly, “considering we are in different brackets, and his VIP tent in the pits is far away from our own.”

Romelle leaned in, her sweet voice turning hard, “I can’t believe how he acts. He plays like he’s some suave gentlemen, but I heard him talk to his team during the welcoming ceremony? He’s a sleazy, self-entitled _jerk_ who thinks he owns the world. I hate him already.”

Allura turned away then, only to discover that her mechanical engineers had jumped from the truck and were watching Lotor Dalir along with her.

One engineer—supposedly an intern but in fact already a trusted addition to the team—was a slim, pale girl with short hair and glasses. The seventeen-year-old wore a Team Voltron shirt in the colors of the still-retired _Green Lion_ dragster. “Ngh, I hate him too,” Pidge whined. “I hate him so much.”

“Oh, yeah sure,” scoffed the other engineer, a rotund but muscled boy who was only a few years older than Pidge. “You’re just jealous of him. And his beautiful white hair. But I mean, who isn’t. Gah, I wanna know what kind of shampoo he uses.” He self-consciously pulled on a lock of his dark hair, then readjusted the hem of his vintage _Yellow Lion_ dragster t-shirt. “I feel so inadequate.”

“I’m _not_ jealous of him,” Pidge retorted. “And no, it’s not because of his beautiful white hair.” She huffed and began to pull on the tow chains linking Allura’s dragster to the truck.

Hunk waved his finger, “I said, you’re jealous of him _and_ his beautiful white hair. It’s possible to be jealous of both. It’s totally possible.”

Allura crossed her arms and raised a sculpted, white brow. “Pidge, why would you be jealous at all? He’s a pro stock motorcyclist. And you don’t like motorcycles.”

Pidge looked up, her small mouth in a grimace. “Don’t you know? The guy was _twelve_ when he made his first patent. He’s the one who perfected the very quintessence-fuel injection ratios that’s standard across the industry, even for Team Voltron. Sure, he races bikes, but don’t think I wouldn’t _froth at the mouth_ to get my hands on one of his four-cylinder Sincline engines.” She licked her lips as she stared at his Sincline motorcycle. “It’s a work of art.”

Allura looked back at the handsome man. “Are you sure he did all of that?” she said suspiciously. “He rather looks like he spends most of his time working out and preening in front of a mirror.”

As much as she despised him, he was fit as a model. Judging by his tight motor suit, he had lithe and corded muscles that gave him the appearance of something elfin. Powerful.

She had a difficult time looking away from Lotor Dalir.  

Coran cut into her thoughts. “Pidge is right. Even when I knew him a decade ago, he was a scary little fellow of a teen.” He laughed nervously. “I half-thought he was planning world domination, with the way he talked about his schematics.”

Pidge added to Allura, voice pressing, “He builds all his own engines from scratch and barely lets other engineers even get close to his work. The guy’s an absolute perfectionist—there’s no way someone with an IQ of 178 spends his time just flexing muscle. He speaks six languages fluently. Don’t let his pretty face fool you. He’s serious competition, Allura. _Serious_ competition.”

Allura’s voice was distracted as she watched him. “But he is in the motorcycle bracket, and we are racing dragsters.”

Suddenly, another voice cropped up behind then. “Yeah, and he’s stealing all the love and attention from media. _And_ our sponsors.” It was a boyish man who wore a Team Voltron motor suit that matched hers, except that his accent color was blue. He had short, brown hair that glimmered in the sun. His handsome face was twisted in irritation. “Every time this guy’s name even _appears_ on TV, he gets all the love, and we’re left in the dust. The amount of fans wearing a shirt with his design is driving me crazy.”

“Hello, Lance,” Allura greeted politely, looking shamed that she had been staring at Lotor for so long. Her cheeks tinged with a blush at being caught, and she desperately attempted to change the subject. “Are you ready for your qualification run?”

His eyes slid to her, and the irritation in his face smoothed over with something soft. “Hey, Allura. Yeah, I’m ready to go. _Red Lion_ ’s purring like a kitten.” He leaned forward and waggled his brows. “You better watch out today—I might knock you off your throne, princess.”

Allura’s face split with a smile. Lance McClain was a dear friend—a nineteen-year-old prodigy racer from Cuba. That made him, to much of the world, just as exotic and handsome as the Middle Eastern Lotor Dalir, although for different reasons. She lowered her voice in a playful way. “I dare you to try winning,” she murmured. She reached up and patted his cute face. “But with my lead in the scorings, I doubt you’ll be able to catch up.”

At that moment, a few of the camera teams began to move away from Lotor to capture them.

Lance leaned in a bit closer, giving her his signature smirk. His white teeth glimmered in the sun. “Maybe I just like to build the suspense between us.” And then he raised her hand and kissed it.

She giggled in delight. “You rascal, you—that’s not true at all. You’re simply trying to steal away the media from Dalir so you can get your face in the papers.”

He arced a brow in a handsome expression. “I’m a man who can do both,” he joked, eyes glittering.

The echoing sound of her sweet giggle, and the movement of the media teams, inspired one Lotor Dalir to turn his gaze her way. His cobalt eyes slid over the slim and lithe form that was Allura “The Princess” Singh, standing so proudly in her innocent, pink uniform, her white hair in a cute bun atop her head.

The man dragged hard on his cigarette as he stared at her, the end lighting a deep red. Then he pulled his cigarette away, spinning it between his long, nimble fingers as he breathed out a cloud of smoke.

His eyes flickered to Lance, curiously taking in the boy’s features, focusing on the slim distance between him and Allura. They seemed to be…close.

Team Voltron’s power couple. The supposed sweethearts who had stolen away his spot on last month’s cover of _Top Fuel_.

Lotor’s lips tipped downward for many reasons. He turned away and leaned against the open window of the truck, peering in with his dark, cobalt eyes. “Zethrid,” he demanded. His voice, a deep velvet wave, was rough in that moment from smoking on a hot day. “Time to unload.”

In the truck, one robust, muscled woman nodded from beneath her ballcap. Her voice was even rougher than his. “You got it, boss.”

He patted the window ledge in some silent acknowledgement before pulling away. As he turned, the wind caught his hair and lifted up the silky strands like fire about his face. Already, a few beads of sweat had collected at his temple from the temperature, and he closed his eyes, breathing in deeply the smell of asphalt, the drifting scent of fried foods, and the addicting nicotine of his still-lit cigarette.

He swept the cigarette back into his mouth as he planted his hand on the trailer tire well and climbed onto the flat bed beside his motorcycle.

With little preamble, he swung a long leg over the seat of his wicked bike, a lit cigarette still hanging from his lips as he flipped various switches on his cycle. Its engine whirled to life in a sharp snarl. The sound reverberated into his heart, unleashing a familiar rush of adrenaline through the veins of his body. He closed his eyes in worship of it. “Mmh." His white brows knitted together in pleasure as his handsome mouth stretched, voice muffled by the cigarette in his mouth. “Ngh, _yes_.”

“Do you and that bike need to find a room?” deadpanned Zethrid. She was leaning against the trailer of the trailer, a thick brow raised.

He did not open his eyes, but one of his brows ticked with a hint of irritation. He pulled his cigarette out of his mouth and rested his sharp wrist against the handlebar. “Hush, love, this is the most perfect purr I have heard from this engine at idle.” His lit smoke still carefully cradled between two fingers, he revved it again, lifting his face into the sun. “It is perfect. I _finally_ fixed that awful clicking noise from the valve train.”

Zethrid rolled her eyes. “…We gotta get you a girl before you end up fucking this thing.”

That inspired him to open his eyes and glare at her playfully. “I’ll have you know,” he told her, his beautiful voice raising above the rev of the engine, “I’ve ridden many women in my time. But none of them ever inspired such emotion in me.” He revved the engine again. He breathed out a cloud of smoke. “I could just about write poetry about it, Zethrid. Just about.” The four exhaust pipes behind his back puffed with flames. It sent a glorious chill down his spine, and he clenched his strong thighs tighter about the seat, leaning forward, as if preparing to jump the truck’s roof.

The woman pulled back from the trailer and began to work on the locks to pull down the gate. “Well, if you start spoutin’ sonnets to your bike, try not to orgasm while you’re at it, cause I’m sure as hell not cleaning that up.”

He lifted his face into the wind and called to her, his eyes lit with lust, “Hitting 200 miles per hour is an orgasm in and of itself, my dear. I have been _aching_ for a good one too.” It had been a solid seventeen hours since he’d last ridden. He’d smoked a full pack, had designed an experimental, all-electric engine, and had accepted a blow job from some fangirl or another—he could not remember her name—just to survive to his next hit of adrenaline.

Zethrid huffed. Her strong hand pulled down the gate. “Whatever. Now, get that tight ass of yours to do something constructive, and start backing off the trailer. I don’t wanna have to go grab Ezor and Aksha from their setup just get you to behave.”

Lotor huffed right back at her, lifting his aristocratic nose in such a way to suggest that he was far above accepting orders. “Only the scoreboard makes me behave, love, you know that.” In doing so, he turned his face away from her. He gazed out above the pits, beyond his motorcycle competitors and even further—

He suddenly tilted his head, and his gold, dangling earrings caught the light of the sun. There, in the distance of the many cars and milling people and dragsters, was a woman in pink. It was Allura Singh once more.  

How strange that she so easily attracted his eye.

Perhaps it was the garish color she wore—the pink an off-shade of the red her father had worn.

The sight of her began to bother him in strange ways.

“Zethrid,” he called to her, his voice sharpening as he toyed with the cigarette between his fingers. “Zethrid, darling, do see that woman off in the distance?”

“There’s a lot of women off in the distance,” she said dryly, but she did partially attempt to follow his gaze.

“With the Voltron team?” he pressed. “The top contender against my father—Allura Singh, The Princess?”

“Yeah, that’s her nickname, along with all the _pink_ she wears.” His crew mate rolled her eyes. “I’m surprised she doesn’t wear pigtails and carry a lollipop too.”  

He dragged on his cigarette one more time, breathing out. And then he licked his lips and made up his mind on a whim. He shut down the bike. “Get this bike off the trailer,” he commanded. “I will not be long. I must speak with her about something important.”

And he swung his leg off the motorcycle, slicking back his long hair with his hand.

Zethrid huffed at him. “Seriously? You’re gonna go dick off _now_? Hey, what about all that poetry about your bike?”

He playfully flipped her the bird, and she responded in kind, and the old friends said nothing more as he walked away.

* * *

 

Allura was leaning over the cockpit of her dragster, checking over the controls once more.

“Ah, the princess I have heard so much about,” came a smooth, male voice. It was demure and accented like her own, with an edge of danger. “How enchanting to see you here at international qualifications.”

Allura froze for a second. She knew that voice anywhere, having heard it on news channels and radio stations. It inspired a jump in her heart in ways that made her breath hitch. Slowly, very slowly, she turned around.

She managed a pained smile as she leaned against the wing of her dragster for strength. “Lotor Dalir, I believe,” she greeted. She kept her voice calm and as unaffected as possible. “What are you doing so far back in line?”

By the _stars_ , was he attractive. The air and sun seemed to bend just for him, lighting the violet of his eyes into a sky blue, ruffling his long hair. He tilted his head. “I fear our respective brackets and the distance between our countries have never afforded us an in-person introduction. I wanted to meet a real-life princess for myself, and to wish you good luck.” He smiled, and his teeth glimmered white against his dark skin. His canines seemed sharp. “It is an honor to meet the infamous daughter of Alfor, the King. Allow me to bow in the presence of royalty.”

And then Lotor did just that, locking a strong arm at his ribs and bending his graceful neck, like some courtier.

Allura’s hands wrung themselves tighter. “Oh, please—it’s uh—” she began to laugh nervously— “it’s just a moniker. I’m not actually a real princess, you know.”

He lifted his head, eyeing her with those sharp pupils. Something about their shape made him look almost inhuman. “I am aware of your heritage—Alfor was an inspiration.” He stood back up to his full height in a mocking sweep, his hair fanning down his broad shoulder. It made her feel just how tall he was as she looked up at him. When he breathed out, smoke slipped from him and made him appear dangerous. A gold earring dangled in the strands of his hair, catching the sunlight. “Though I am sure you are aware of my heritage as well.”

Her voice tightened. “I am.”

Lotor’s father, Zarkon Dalir, was her father’s old friend-turned-rival and the very man Alfor had been racing against during his fatal crash. Any encounter with someone from the Dalir family was likely to be tense as a result. But while Zarkon had outright acknowledged their bad blood on TV, Lotor…seemed to be of a different mindset.

By that point, Allura was all alone with this strange man. Lance had returned to his own dragster to handle a question from a passerby fan, and Pidge and Hunk were fiddling with the bolts to the back tire. Coran had floundered off to talk to a media team about her and Lance’s cooked-up romance (really, she couldn’t believe anyone would think them more than just the good friends they were)…And Romelle was likely off spying on some of the other dragsters—or bothering Lance…

It was a most dangerous thing to be, alone with Lotor Dalir.

“Why are you here?” she asked him again, still trying to remain polite. “The races are about to begin soon, and I see you are not even yet prepared.”

“You will have to forgive my curiosity about you,” he said, brushing off her concern with a wave of his hand. For as much as Romelle seemed to rant against him, his speech was eloquent, his voice an elegant lilt. She found that unsettling. He walked around her, his eyes roving over her form. “You, princess, are fresh blood to this competition, and yet you choose to race an old dragster of your father’s?”

She crossed her arms over her chest, her face tinging in a blush. “The _Blue Lion_ is a champion,” she said, her voice darkening with an odd, confused frustration. Was this his version of small talk? Was he insulting her, or complimenting her? “She’s the strongest, most dangerous machine in my bracket. I am proud to be her driver.” 

Lotor huffed in amusement, his canines catching the light. “Ah, I see now. This is not just about your father—it is more. You feel _attached_ to your parlor sport.”

Her blue and purple eyes narrowed. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, princess.” He said the word so smoothly, as if it were naturally her name. But somehow, it came off as diminutive. “Both you and my father, with your….dragsters, have many bells and whistles that activate to save your life in the event of a crash or explosion—technological innovations from your father’s own mistakes.” He leaned in, his words a breath against her skin. “You are cocooned in a cage of iron, cradled like the soft thing you are. But now your technology can practically drive itself, whereas the only object between myself and death is _skill_.”

Her eyes hardened into diamonds, and her jaw dropped. He was most certainly insulting her. “Do you insinuate, good sir, that I have no racing skill by proxy of my machine’s design?”

He pulled away, a smirk dancing across the edge of his handsome lips. His mouth seemed a bit wide at times, as if he could eat her up. “You dragsters believe yourselves to be the superior bracket in Top Fuel—but why, I do not know. Perhaps you can enlighten me.”

His words seemed to tie her tongue. “It takes _a lot_ of skill to handle a dragster,” she retorted harshly. “Not only am I going faster than you ever could, but I’m also fighting to maintain control of a much larger and far more dangerous machine.”

Lotor’s thin lips stretched, and a huff of amusement escaped him. “Your machine will soon be outpaced by other technologies that still require skill to use, not the least of which will be mine.” He leaned against the wing of _Blue Lion_ , his handsome face closing in. “I am sure you have watched my Sincline engines take me over 250 miles per hour, with only my suit to save me.” Like this, she could smell the smoke and ash of his breath—mixed with the spice of some cologne. He murmured, “So perhaps you should give me a kiss for good luck, and I could give you a kiss for at least knocking my father off his pedestal.”

Her beautiful face twisted in a blush, and she backed away. “You are too forward, sir,” she said, voice hard. “Go ask your adoring fans for a kiss if you need one.”

“Oh,” he moaned, his beautiful voice edging a sound just this side of wanton. “It is not their kiss I desire, princess. But very well.” His eyes glittered in a dark, mocking way as he delighted in her innocent blush. He added, his eyes roving over her, “In the meantime, do try to avoid the mistakes of your father. I should hate to see your pretty brains splattered across the asphalt. Not that my father would mind his resulting victory.”

And then he walked away, carding a hand through his long, white hair.

Allura’s face lit hot with indignancy. She looked about and saw an empty beer can someone had left on the rim of the nearby trash can. She grabbed it and threw it hard at him.

He caught it without even turning around, the metal a cling against his calloused skin. She could almost feel the demonic smile on his face, and it goose-bumped her skin to watch his elbow twist in such a strange way. He crushed the can in, then let it drop on the pavement. “Temper, love,” he admonished her. “Unchecked emotions result in _fatal_ consequences!”  

And then he walked away once more, his white hair flowing in the wind.  

He left Allura with her heart pounding, her fingers trembling as if she had just raced past the scoreboards at 300 miles per hour.

It didn’t hit her until much later that media had captured their entire exchange.

* * *

 

Zethrid was tapping her foot, her muscled arms crossed as she leaned against the Sincline truck. “What the hell was that?” she demanded flatly. “They’re about to play the anthem, and you don’t even have your helmet on.”

Lotor gave her a shrug. “I was simply affording my father’s competition a piece of helpful advice.”

“No, you weren’t. You were flirting. Or trying to scare her. I totally saw it.”

“You were the one who suggested I find something other than my bike to ride.” And then he began to slick back his hair into a low ponytail, his eyes still keenly honed on Allura Singh. He wondered in that moment if she had as much fire in bed as she did when insulted. “She at least passed the first test.”

Her gaze caught his, and she looked away in some kind of horrified blush.

His lips stretched.

Zethrid slapped his stomach. “Ugh, set your eyes on someone else, pretty boy. Girls like that don’t sleep with trash like you.”

“My dear, she monologued about how she likes to manhandle powerful, dangerous machines. And she threw a can at me. And my father is angry that a girl called _Princess_ is beating him in the standings. I cannot simply ignore how pleasing I find all of this.” He patted the bar of his motorcycle and said to it, “Though you are still my first love.” Then he ran his bare hand against the motorcycle’s sleek metal. His beautiful voice turned with something pet-like. “ _Yes, you are_.”

“Oh my god.” Zethrid rolled her eyes and tossed him his headscarf. “Just go out there and do your job, fancy pants. And try to remember that kids are watching this.”

* * *

 

After the playing of the Olkari national anthem, the qualifying rounds began.

Bob’s voice echoed around the grandstands, which were now brimming with people to such an extent that people were standing in the stairwells, simply to catch a glimpse. Newscasters were poised alongside cameramen, ready to capture action shots.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve got our first qualifiers inching up to the starting line. In lane one, the heartthrob of the pro stock motorcycle circuit, your reigning champion back to defend his title—the one, the only, Lotor Dalir!”

The crowd raised with a scream, drowned out by the high-whine rev of his cycle’s engine. Beneath his helmet, his lips curled into a smirk as he leaned on his bike, tilting it left and right to soak the large, back tire with the water the pit crew had sprayed on the asphalt.

Bob’s voice wafted over the speakers. “The twenty-seven-year-old son of Zarkon Dalir, Lotor has been making a name for himself under Sincline Racing LLC, a subsidiary of his father’s Dubai-based company, Galra Tech. With the fastest times of any motorcyclist this year, he hopes to set a new world record—and to delight the ladies with a good time. Am I right, ladies?”

The crowd raised up with screams. Various women in the audience waved their arms. Many held up phones, cameras—a few signs proposing marriage—

Lotor waved back at them, looking exceptionally pleased with his fanbase.

“Looks like he’s already accomplished one of his goals today,” laughed Bob. Bii-Bo-Bi was still flawlessly translating in the background. “Let’s see if he can break a record too!”

The pit crew member waved, backing away.

Lotor leaned forward on his bike, tucking his long legs in and pressing on the brake while applying the throttle. The bike roared beneath him in a stream of smoke, burning out the water. And then it cut loose, surging forward. Its hot tires stuck soundly to the pavement now—crisp, solid.

 _Perfect conditions_ , he purred to himself. His fingers tightened on the bars in anticipation as he slowed the bike and began to back it to the start line behind the Christmas tree.

“While he’s preparing to race down the track, let’s take a look at our contender in lane two, the well-loved Aksha Kahtri. Also a team member of Sincline LLC, she stands among the top four qualifiers and is currently tied with team Voltron’s Keith Kogane for—”

His words drowned out as the woman in black revved her engine and shot off into a burnout, similar to Lotor’s. Her motorcycle was embossed with the word _Acxa_ —her racing nickname as a result of a misprint in brochures and banners a few years back. She wore a similar motor suit to his own, but she had streaks of purple down her body instead of orange and blue.

She looked over at him from across the drag strip and nodded.

He nodded in return.

While this was simply qualifying rounds, eventually the qualifications would lead into the true competitions, and they would no longer be racing to determine their spots, but to eliminate the other.  

If either won the official title, money would go to Sincline LLC regardless—but the glory only to the one racer.

And that made them quite competitive against each other.  

The pit crews waved them back as they slipped behind the red-lit Christmas tree—the staging light. Their Sincline cycles glimmered dark in the bright morning sun as Bob spoke about their sponsors.

“—Will see them both proudly sporting the logos of their newest sponsors, Equality Now and Futures Without Violence—"

And then they began to edge forward, their hot tires sticking soundly to the pavement, the lightest touch of the throttles jerking their powerful machines forward, like snarling predators.

From behind his visor helmet, Lotor narrowed his eyes and murmured, “Come on.” His knuckles bled white beneath his leather gloves, his heart racing with adrenaline. He steadied himself on the two wheels as he focused on the staging light before him.

The bottom of the tree lit. He was in position.

Then his teammate activated her side. She was in position.

Another inch forward—the yellow rows lit—

 _Then green_.

Lotor slammed on the throttle with strength that bordered on the demonic, the front of his Sincline cycle lifting from the massive torque of 14,000 rpm and 400-horsepower. The digital speedometer raced from 0 to 100 and began to climb even higher. His sleek form leaned into the curves of his cycle, tightening his thighs against it and streamlining his broad shoulders as the g-force surged around him. His own breath stalled—the world blurred in a rush of color and marvelous adrenaline and _yes—yes—yes—_

He heard nothing else but the Sincline’s transmission whining hard like a scream, shifting in a slam from gear to gear, responding to his demands in perfect obedience.

His form, then Aksha’s, flew past the scoreboards.

And then it was over.

The crowds raised up in a cheer once more as the scoreboard on Lotor’s side flashed with blinking lights, the red-digital numbers large and proud before the grandstands.

“Lotor Dalir sets the bar high once again,” called out Bob, his voice raising in adrenaline. “5.901 seconds at 260 miles per hour. It might not break the world record, but it certainly places him in a great spot to maintain a top-five qualifying position. Aksha Kahtri comes in at a respectable 6.117 and 253 miles per hour. This could be a chance for Team Voltron’s Keith Kogane to swoop in and take a higher qualification placement. But for all you Acxa fans out there, not to worry—another round of qualifications will take place at noon, and the average of the two runs will be—”

On the far side of the drag strip, Lotor allowed his cycle to coast down, its four-cylinder engine softening to a lower decibel. He dared to breathe again, lifting up from his streamlined position. And then he smiled as he raised his fist in the air, listening to the cheers of the crowd chanting his name.

He pulled off his helmet, feeling the cooling air strike hard against his sweating face. Cameramen along the far side of the track snapped the picture.

“What a race, ladies and gentlemen,” echoed Bob’s voice. “What a race—”

* * *

 

By the time Allura was preparing to jump into the seat of _Blue Lion_ , another cheer was raising up from the crowd. The side road along the drag strip boasted a _Sincline Racing_ truck, towing Lotor’s motorcycle back to the pits with Lotor still riding on it. He’d taken off his helmet and had pulled off the top half of his motor suit, revealing his gray and white under suit that clung even closer to his chiseled muscles.

The man soaked in the love from the crowd as he passed them by, waving and smiling at them. His signature hair streamed behind him, partially matted with sweat and from his helmet.

He still managed to look like a sin just waiting to happen.

“Can’t he hurry it up and get back to the pits?” Romelle complained, readjusting her heavy noise-cancelling headphones. “At this rate, they won’t be able to hear Bob introduce you.”

“They don’t need to hear the announcer’s introduction,” Allura retorted playfully, sinking down into the driver’s seat. “They’ll hear me, and they’ll know.”

But eventually, Bob began to speak. “The track is cleared off, and round one of pro stock motorcycle qualifications is complete. We now move to our dragster brackets, where we have racing by herself in lane one Allura “The Princess” Singh. In her rookie season, this twenty-three-year-old is quickly becoming a fan favorite—and a formidable opponent to reigning champion, Zarkon Dalir. Singh is the daughter of Alfor “The King” Singh, carrying on his vast legacy by driving the _Blue Lion_ , one of five quintessence-injected dragsters that Alfor built himself. Her previous qualifications at national competitions have placed her in the lead. Let’s see if this rookie has what it takes to make it on the international stage!”

The crowd began to cheer, nearly to the same height as they did for Lotor.

In the driver’s seat, with her helmet locked on and body braced, Allura muttered darkly under her breath, “He thinks he’s so tough with his wind-up toy. But I’ll show him what _real power_ is.” And then she jammed on the ignition.

 _Blue Lion_ ’s supercharged hemi engine roared to life, true to its name. The winged tips of her dragster flexed with every rev of the throttle, the large exhaust shooting out with several feet of flames. The pit crew hung far back and moved cautiously compared to their behavior around the pro stock motorcycles.

And in that moment, Allura felt an ultimate power, the vibrations of _Blue Lion_ ’s engine sinking into her bones, feeding her with life. Adrenaline.

Her dragster rail inched forward as the crew wetted down the asphalt around her back tires.

Her crew chief, Coran, waved her forward, wearing noise-cancelling headphones as well. He’d pulled a Team Voltron jacket on over his Hawaiian shirt and was sweating profusely in the increasing heat of the day. He backed away as he waved her forward.

And then she put on the brakes and lit up her back tires in a great burnout, the rail of the dragster flexing hard as fire and smoke surged behind her.

“Let’s do this, Blue,” she whispered.

 _Blue Lion_ lurched forward like a snarling beast, the burnout stretching high to the heavens and drifting across the full of the pits. The world blurred for a short second. And then she quickly lifted off the throttle to shut it down. Her heart was pounding as she waited for Hunk to appear on the track before her to help her steer backward to the staging light. This was it.

The adrenaline rush of her life.  

Beneath the harsh cackles and snarls of the _Blue Lion_ ’s engine, she said to the air, her breath a hot puff inside her helmet, “I’m going to win this competition, father. I’m going to beat everyone. And I’m going to show that arrogant _brat_ of Zarkon’s a thing or two about skill.”  

Soon enough, Hunk appeared before her minimal view, smiling as he began to wave her back. He paced her down the drag strip, encouraging her backward as _Blue Lion_ ’s engine popped and crackled with laughs. He then gave her a thumb’s up, and she noticed she was back behind the Christmas tree, her tires fully clean and sticking soundly to the pavement.

Coran began to wave everyone away from the lane before he gave her a nod and pulled back himself.

Allura gently inched forward. _Blue Lion_ purring in anticipation to the rhythm of her heart—

A surge of yellow lights—

And then _green_.

* * *

 

One Lotor Dalir was smoking a cigarette, leaning against the fence near the standby ambulances and the pits where his father was currently preparing for a run. The top half of his motor suit still hung from his hips to keep himself cool in the hot sun. He’d popped in some ear plugs—

—And then his mouth dropped open as he witnessed The Princess _shred_ the drag strip. The sound of 1,100 pounds of pure force from her rail’s open headers shook the grandstands and the earth beneath his boots, vibrating up his body to shake into his veins. His breath stalled again, his eyes focused on the pure white flames shooting from her exhaust pipes.

He felt her 10,000 horsepower in every part of him.

In less than four seconds, the blur that was her dragster had crossed the line, the parachutes with the Voltron insignia shooting out to slow her down.

His cigarette fell from his open mouth as he stared at the numbers flashing on her scoreboard. She had a beautiful reaction time. Flawless run. Her dragster ran straight and true as an arrow.

He’d seen many a dragster in his life and hadn’t cared in years to stick around long enough to watch his father’s portion of the competition. But this dragster—this _Princess_ Allura—was special.

He knew a bond with a machine when he saw one.

Bob’s voice echoed in awe over the grandstands, which still shook with tremors from the power of the quintessence-injected dragster. “And The Princess protects her title! 367 miles per hour in 3.889 seconds! A perfect run!”

The crowd cheered wildly.

A dark, lustful smile stretched Lotor’s face. “Hn." He focused on the small dot of her dragster in the distance, thinking back to the way her eyes lit with white, righteous flames, just like her machine. “I _like_ her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this trash all in two days thanks to M.I.A.’s songs, encouragement from the Lotura discord, and from the fact that drag racing nationals are currently active here in the US. XD
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this AU! I tried to make it realistic to the experience, save for some minor details and the whole “quintessence-injection” thing as some kind of fuel additive. If you’re curious about Top Fuel categories, [this](http://www.nhra.net/aboutnhr/classes.htm) is a good site to check it out. 
> 
> Also, please check out Gyodragon’s [fanart of my human racer!Lotor here!](https://the-second-law-ls.tumblr.com/post/177481429763/gyodragon-lotor-dalir-inspired-by-convo) It’s amazing, and I love it and am so thankful she drew this trash boi!! Gyo helped inspire Lotor's earring and the appearance of his under suit as a result, haha. 
> 
> Please let me know if you think I should continue this story! Thanks!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the following people for reviewing last time: IndiiBrownFlowerCrown, garbage_dono, bombshells, Cutting class-ics, CrystalRebellion, Gyogyo, TheNumberFour, Lost_Space_Nugget (M_A_Biscuit), EllieDoll, PetulantPanda, tuonetar, Cam_d, cataclysmofstars, Usbt, Mythicamagic, AngelFireStar, TheCelestialUnicorn, HymmForDeath, and Akapine. I really appreciate your reviews and support! 
> 
> Many of you mentioned not knowing anything about drag racing prior to this story, so I’m really thankful that you took a chance on reading this AU. I hope you continue to enjoy it!

One adrenaline-hyped Allura sat atop the cockpit of her dragster as Hunk towed her back to the pits. She’d pulled off her helmet, her bun matted and half-falling out, her face shining with sweat from the increasing heat of the day. Her beautiful face was still flushed and her heart pounding from the g-force of her run. She waved merrily at the crowd in the grandstands as they passed by. A few fans, Allura noticed, had begun to wear team Voltron shirts again. Some older people still had shirts of _Red Lion_ with her father’s signature on them, and her heart soared.

She felt her eyes burn then, and not from the residual smoke of her dragster—but in the realization that somehow, her father was reflecting back in the faces of strangers, raised up in applause for her.

“ _Oh, my precious daughter_ ,” he had once laughed, lifting her up in his strong, calloused hands. He’d spun her around as she giggled at the feeling of his scruff brushing her cheek. “ _I am so proud you! Perfect marks in all of your classes!”_

Allura waved harder at the older people in _Red Lion_ shirts, her lips stretching so hard that she thought she could burst.

“Hey, Allura?” called out Hunk, who had slowed the truck to turn around and eye her from the open, back window. “Were you wanting to watch Zarkon’s run?”

“Yes, thank you, Hunk.” She turned to look out toward the burnout box, her smile faltering a bit at the sight of her father’s once-best friend and his rival. Zarkon Dalir’s dragster matched hers to a large extent in terms of its long, rail-like structure and wings—but it was a sleek black and purple, its angles harsh like a weapon. His sponsors were even more numerous than her own from years of claiming victory after victory.

As Hunk began to turn off the side-road, Allura caught the infamous name of Zarkon’s dragster. _Komar_.

She realized then that the man was already sitting in it, waiting to ignite his powerful machine. His helmeted face turned to stare at her, his visor black and non-reflective as he watched her.

His attention sent chills down her spine despite the sweat on her face and the heat of the day. She quickly looked away, swallowing hard.

“Hunk,” she called out, voice strained, leaning forward. “This is good—by the fences.”

He slowed the truck to a stop, looking back at her. “You got your ear plugs?”

She jumped off the top of her dragster, her boots hitting the asphalt. “Yes,” she breathed, grabbing them from the seat of _Blue Lion_ , where she’d pulled them out after she’d shut down the machine. She waved them at Hunk as she stood back from the dragster.

Hunk gave her a thumbs up, and then he pulled on sunglasses, looking sharp in the team Voltron truck. He began to roll forward, taking the slumbering _Blue Lion_ with him off the side-road and into the network of streets connecting back to the pits.

But as the truck pulled away, Allura’s heart stopped.

There, leaning against the fence, was Lotor Dalir. His motor suit was still undone at the waist, his handsome face shining with sweat from the high sun. And he was staring right at her, the wind catching his long hair.

His face split with a dark smirk, his white teeth shining.

Allura’s fist clenched tighter around her ear plugs. _Oh no_ , she thought to herself. It was odd that her heart seemed to both sink and raise at the sight of him.

_Please don’t walk over here—_

_Please don’t walk over here—_

Some part of her self-consciously acknowledged that her hair was half-fallen out from its bun and that she looked a little worse for wear after her ride. Her heart was beginning to pound at the thought of speaking to him as she swept some flyaways of her hair back behind her ear, hardening her gaze to look more intimidating than she was.

But then Bob’s voice wafted through the speakers. “And up next, we have the international Top Fuel reigning champion, Zarkon Dalir himself!”

The crowds began to roar again. It was enough of a distraction that Allura managed to tear her eyes away from Lotor, desperately attempting to focus on something other than him. She began to fit her earplugs in, the black cord swinging against back of her neck, in preparation for the loud noise of her competition’s engine.

“Dalir boasts nearly three decades of top fuel racing,” Bob explained to the crowds, with Bih-Boh-Bii translating the background. “A fan favorite, this silver fox was once the original driver of team Voltron’s _Black Lion_ and has since enraptured the world with the power of his own dragster, the _Komar_. His Dubai-based company, Galra Tech, is responsible for the very quintessence-injection technology used across the industry today. He’s held the championship title for five years in a row. Let’s see if he’ll be able to protect his title this year!”

And Allura’s heart skipped as she watched the _Komar_ flare to life. The sharp metal of the dragster flexed with the roar of the engine, catching the light of the sun and blinding her. She squinted her eyes, stepping backward and out of the glare.  

Even at idle, the _Komar_ shook the grandstands. The powerful machine inched forward on its tires, the windows of Lookout Tower shuddering with the palpable thrums of the engine.

It was not the first time Allura had ever seen the _Komar_. But it was the first time she had seen it live. TV recordings simply could not capture the breathing, draconic power that her father’s rival wielded. It stalled her breath as Zarkon Dalir slammed on both the brake and accelerator, lighting up his back tires in a burnout.

The _Komar_ ’s engine roared hard in a snarl as the machine surged forward down the drag strip, cutting the sky with a harsh streak of smoke. Then Zarkon decelerated, and Allura’s fist clenched to her chest. She felt as if the dragster’s supercharger were not simply sucking in air to feed the engine’s combustion—she felt as if it were feeding the engine with her own life force. The air was punishingly thin in its presence, tainted by the thick smoke drifting off from the drag strip. She coughed into her hand, backing away further toward the safety fences, where the smoke was already dissipating. A Galra Tech crew member near the burnout box—a stubby man with wild facial hair—began to trail after the machine, racing forward to assist with the return to the staging light.

The crowds wildly cheered for Zarkon Dalir—

—Except, oddly, for his own son. Allura chanced a look at Lotor, who remained leaning against the fence with his arms crossed. The smoke from the burnout drifted over him as well, but he did not seem to mind it, his handsome face instead critical as he watched his father stop behind the staging light.

Lotor seemed to be searching for something in particular. 

Allura looked away and back to Zarkon. The _Komar_ ’s engine snapped and snarled, shaking in its frame as if uncontainable, its tires hot. The machine jerked forward in small intervals as Zarkon aligned himself to the staging light.  

In that second, the entirety of the grandstands seemed to hold its breath, waiting.

Another snarling snap forward.

The yellow lights lit up—green—

And then a concussive force warped the air as the _Komar_ blurred forward, accelerating with a burst of purple-tinged flames from out of the heavy exhaust pipes. The sight left Allura wide-eyed.  

In the smoky air, the purple fire looked as if Zarkon Dalir had opened a rift across the sky, the image of him burning like a flash into Allura’s retinas.

Her full lips dropped open as she blinked.

And then he was flying across the line, deploying the black parachutes of his dragster, glowing with the emblem of Galra Tech.

Bob’s voice wafted in over the speakers, excited. “And Zarkon Dalir crosses the line, 375 miles per hour in 3.867 seconds! What a great run, ladies and gentlemen—this places him in first, knocking Allura Singh down to second. The Princess has some strong competition in this one.” 

Allura dared to breathe, swallowing hard as she felt her throat tighten. _Oh_ , she thought. In one run alone, Zarkon had already moved to steal her throne. He must have done something to his dragster since his country’s national competition, in anticipation of racing against her—

—But what had he done? Would Hunk or Pidge be able to recalibrate _Blue Lion_ to such an extent?

She was beginning to panic, and she forced herself to take an unsteady breath. It was just qualifications, she tried to tell herself.

It was just qualifications.

And then a velvet, decadent male voice cut into her thoughts. “Try not to wrinkle that pretty brow of yours, princess,” came the lilting call of one Lotor Dalir.

She looked over at him, eyes still wide. She’d forgotten about Lotor in the aftermath of Zarkon’s run, but it seemed he hadn’t forgotten about her. He was walking towards her, his cobalt gaze searching her, his white hair streaming in the smoky air like some unholy halo.

Allura tensed and began to back away. Her shoulder hit the fencing. “What do you want?”

The handsome man tilted his head. “Simply to offer you an apology.” As he walked up to her, she had to crane her neck more. Lotor Dalir was a tall man.

He reached out, his long fingers curling into the fence’s metal wiring beside her shoulder, his muscled forearm holding him steady as he looked down at her.

She stared up at him, her eyes growing even wider. Her heart was still pounding from the earthquake that was Zarkon Dalir’s power, and now it was beginning to race again. Lotor Dalir had a presence—a very physical air around him that made the air seem thick. The under suit he wore also revealed every hard line of his body, and it was difficult to look away from him. “An apology?” she repeated, voice incredulous.

“Yes,” he murmured to her. “I watched your qualification run.” His eyes were bright with the light of the sun, intense. His voice husked with breath. “It moved me. I felt such…vibrations.” 

She felt it then, the tension between them. The distance between his face and hers.

“You were quite willing to mock my sport earlier,” she retorted, face tight with emotion. Her cheeks began to tinge pink at his proximity.

“I had to see what all your fuss was about.” He leaned in, smelling of smoke and mint, his blue eyes darkening with attraction. “And truly, I have not seen a driver soar truer than you. I stand corrected about you, princess.” His voice lilted with sensual humor. “I like when someone exceeds my expectations.”

Allura huffed nervously, struggling to think between the pain of losing her first place to Zarkon, and the terrible tension she felt between her lips and Lotor’s. “Well, it doesn’t matter, with the power your father just showed,” she said nervously, sinking against the fence. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to my team and prepare to race again.”

Lotor did not move his strong arm, his hand still locked tight against the fence. “Please do accept my apology for insulting you earlier, princess,” he murmured to her, his smooth voice a vibration against her. “And know that my father relies on the power of his engine to make up for sloppy reaction times.” His thin lips stretched. “He is not so nimble as you are.”

Her blue and purple eyes locked with his for a time as she inhaled shakily. Then, her eyes narrowed. “Are you…trying to give me advice, sir?”

His fingers pulled away from the fence, and he moved a bit closer to her still, leaning his elbow against the mesh wiring. He smiled cheekily, looking devious. “Of course,” he murmured. “We cannot have my father steal away your trophy, now, can we?”

Allura stared at him in suspicion.

Lotor tried again. “Come to my VIP tent in the pits,” he offered, his beautiful voice light. “I serve nothing but the best for my sponsors and my crew. Prime rib, wines, desserts.” He waved his free hand in a lazy way. “While we eat, I can speak more about the many flaws in my father’s driving techniques, and how you may capitalize from them. Know that he has studied your technique as well.”

Allura felt a bit claustrophobic from his stance and the way he was leaning in. Her dark face was tight. “…I’m a vegetarian,” she said, voice strained.  

“Hn.” His eyes crinkled in humor. “Do you not eat cows in your country?”

His whimsical tone did not sit well with her. “I rather respect them, sir,” she retorted.

His voice lilted in a diminutive way again as he smiled, his sharp canines glimmering. “Like my mother. How precious. Tell me then, love, what do you offer in your tent, hmm?”

“My name is _Allura_ ,” she deadpanned, her eyes firing up the more he ruffled her feathers. “And I am proud to offer my sponsors staple foods from my home country—not that it matters to you.”

Lotor made a noise in the back of his throat, and it sounded positively decadent, striking her blush deeper upon her face. “Do you offer a Patiala-peg lassi?”

“I do, sir. Why do you ask?”

He looked at her as if she held the sun and the moon in her hands, his eyes darkening in want. “Oh, princess,” he moaned softly to her, his breath puffing against her face with the heat of his mouth. “Let me come inside, and taste what you have. And I will give you my father’s secrets.”

The manner in which he spoke, so fervently, carried intimate vibrations. Her blush stretched up to the tips of her ears as she tried to lean away from him. “Sorry,” she said, straining. “But—I—I just can’t have you trying to steal away my sponsors.”

“Your sponsors are not what I desire from you.”

Like this, his cobalt eyes were hypnotizing, and she struggled to look away from him. She began to stutter. “Hmm, w-well, if you want a lassi so terribly,” she said, eyes wide, “you can buy them, you know.” She waved a hand out toward the vast side streets on the other side of the grandstands, brimming with vendors. “I saw a lassi company over there.”

“But one from you would taste far more authentic,” he murmured. “I would pay in diamonds for an invitation into your tent, love. Any price.”

Her white brows flew up as she struggled to come up with a response that wouldn’t result in another throwing of cans, especially since none were around. “Uh, w-well, I—”

“—Or you could bring a lassi to my tent,” he offered. “I care not if you steal my sponsors. I can get others.” He looked all of two seconds away from kissing her, his beautiful voice a whisper upon her skin. “I would exchange a fine wine for your lassi, even.” His voice lightened. “I always give more than I receive.” 

Her face was burning a red as she stared at him, half-expecting him to close the gap between them. _Oh, dear_ , she thought again. Her heart was pounding. Lotor Dalir was even harder to handle when he wasn’t insulting her. This man was going to be the death of her.

She opened her mouth to try and politely decline.

But someone else cut her off.

“—Lotor, you dirty hoe, get over here.” Suddenly, a dark hand appeared out of nowhere. Zethrid grabbed onto Lotor’s ear and pulled down hard, and the handsome man’s face twisted in pain. His tall form bent sideways, jerking away form Allura.

“Ow,” he complained to her in a petulant pout. “Careful, love. I’m delicate.” Zethrid yanked harder, making him bend even lower, his white hair swaying in a tangle about him. “Ow. _What_.”

“You got a ton of people lined outside the tent, waiting for autographs, and here you are, dicking off with the Princess.” She turned her face to Allura, looking tired and irritated. “Just kick him in the nuts, sweetheart. It’s the only way he learns. Throwing cans or trying to talk him down won’t do anything.” 

“You wound me,” Lotor moaned, still trying to escape her sharp grasp on her ear while also haltingly following her along. “Zethrid. Darling, my ear. You’re catching my earring, and it hurts.”

“You big baby.” And then she waved back to Allura in some gruff form of goodbye as she dragged her boss along. “You have such a low pain tolerance. I can’t believe people like you.”

His voice strained. “Zethrid, I need my ear for things—”

“—To what, ignore someone rejecting you? Now come on, you can drown your sorrows in the funnel cake Ezor bought.”

And then Lotor’s pained, beautiful voice lifted in a spark of hope at the mention of fried sugar dough. “…. A funnel cake?”

“Yeah, that’s what I just said.”

“…Oh, love. Why did you not _start_ with this?”

Allura’s lips dared to stretch in amusement as she watched the crew woman strong-arm Lotor away, his bowed form straightening to full height as Zethrid released him. He immediately began to rub his ear and put some distance between them, a playful pout on his face.

He turned around, giving Allura a salute until Zethrid tried to grab for his ear once more—and this time, he lithely dodged her attack, his laugh a light, airy sound against Bob’s introduction of the next drag racer.

Allura watched him disappear in the distance, standing in the shock of defeat from Zarkon—and in shock from Lotor, who had the audacity to request forgiveness while still mercilessly flirting with her.

His decadent voice echoed in her mind. “ _Let me come inside, and taste what you have. And I will give you my father’s secrets_.”

Allura began to fan herself. “Oh, dear,” she whispered, realizing in horror that, for as unbearable as he was, she felt hot in places that had nothing to do with the heat of the day.

* * *

 

Soon, the first round of dragster qualifications finished up, and Allura found herself munching on a samosa from the safety of team Voltron’s VIP tent, leaning up against the rails as she watched her mechanics tear down _Blue Lion_ ’s destroyed engine beneath the awning of her nearby semitrailer. Her run had, per standard, welded several clutch plates together and had burned out the sparkplugs, as well as scorched various pistons, connecting rods, and rings. It would be another forty minutes before they would have a rebuilt engine for her to test.

The sound of children laughing reached her ears, and she turned to the large semitrailer beside her own, which boasted the logo and image of Lance McClain. The boy—still in his white and blue motor suit from his recent run—was kneeling on the asphalt, his handsome face split wide in a smile as his small nieces and nephews tackled him.

His boyish voice echoed like sunshine. “What the cheese, look at you!” he murmured to the smallest child, who boasted short, cropped hair like his own. “You’re so big! You’re supposed to just be a squirt!” He pulled the giggling boy into a bear hug and then opened his arms to hug the others.

Allura’s face softened as she smiled, munching quietly.

Lance’s entire family had flown out to watch him compete. It had been all he could talk about for days—even more so than the competition itself. He had been so terribly proud to have made it to internationals in the _Red Lion_.

He was quite the opposite of Lotor Dalir, who seemed to treat the competition as if it were just an amusing game, and who exuded sin, whereas Lance was clean-cut and charming in a “boy next door” way. 

Allura faltered, pursing her lips tight.

 _Oh, no_ , she thought, half-in panic. _Don’t think of Lotor. Don’t do it._

But it was already too late.

“ _Let me come inside,”_ he moaned to her, _“and taste what you have. And I will give you my father’s secrets_.”

The woman cursed herself as she swallowed the remains of her fried potato food. That smarmy sleaze was an infection in her thoughts, desecrating the sanctity of her mind. With himself. And even worse, she almost did not care. Feeling flustered from him was far better than dwelling on her qualification standings.

“Hey, Allura?” came a familiar, female voice.

She blinked and turned around, and she managed a tight smile. “Romelle.”

The other woman looked a bit more frazzled, pulling off her ball cap to fan herself with it. “Coran and Pidge are working on calibrations to get more horsepower out of _Blue Lion_ ,” she said. “Pidge thinks that the secret is in the _Komar_ ’s supercharger. She’s going to make a few adjustments in hopes it increases your power.”

Allura’s smile remained a bit pained. “That is well. I’m very grateful for anything she can do.”

Romelle leaned forward on the railing beside Allura. “For what it’s worth, we all think your reaction times are spot-on,” she said encouragingly. “Your consistency and focus are worthy of the Olympics, truly. Try not to worry too much about this Zarkon fellow.”

“…That is easier said than done,” the racer admitted, voice wry.

The other woman nudged her, turning purple eyes to search Allura’s face. “And try not to worry about Lotor Dalir either,” she said knowingly.

Allura visibly flinched. “What?”

Romelle leaned in and whispered, “I _totally_ saw him coming onto you before and after your run.” Her thin, pale fingers tapped against the railing, her eyes darkening. “But he’s not going to get so close to you again. Not if I have anything to do with it.”

She blinked, her mind racing. “Romelle, what—?”

The woman shoved something into her hand. It was a small, thin cylinder.

Romelle said, “—Pepper spray. You just flip the top, aim, and press down.” Her sweet voice did not seem suited for such topics. “It’ll make him cry, and with any luck, maybe he won’t be able to race at all. And then he’ll leave the competition, disqualified.”

Allura’s full lips dropped open as she stared at the pepper spray in her hands. She turned toward Romelle, trying to push it back into the woman’s hands. “This is _illegal_ to carry here,” she whispered tightly. “You will get me in trouble.”

“And I can’t always be around to shoo him off,” Romelle huffed. “This is for your own protection, Allura. Guys like Lotor Dalir are dangerous. He talks up his Equality Now sponsorship and acts like a gentleman with media, but it’s just a coverup.”

Allura’s voice strained. “You don’t think he would really try anything like—?”   

“—He’s two-faced, rotten from the inside out,” Romelle pressed. She curled Allura’s fingers around the pepper spray. “After what I heard him say to his team, I’d trust his father over him.”

The racer asked quietly, “And what did you hear him say? Really?”

It was then that a line appeared between Romelle’s thin brows, as if she were trying to think hard. “I can’t remember the exact wording,” she admitted, voice hardly above a whisper. “But something about cornering a fan to give him a blowjob back at his hotel. He was so proud about it too.”

“Cornering?” Allura repeated, eyebrows flying up.

Romelle nodded, face tight.

Allura’s fingers curled a bit more around the pepper spray. She recalled the way Lotor had pinned her against the fence. Righteous anger unfurled within her.

“ _Let me come inside,”_ he moaned to her, _“and taste what you have. And I will give you my father’s secrets_.”

“That jerk,” Allura whispered, her eyes widening. “Cornering a fan? As in, he _made_ her do it?”

Romelle nodded again, but this time something in her was a bit hesitant. “I think so.”

Suddenly, Allura pulled away. “That is not acceptable,” she said. “He cannot race under the banner of Equality Now and Futures Without Violence, acting like that. I won’t let him.”

The other woman began to follow her, reaching out. “Where are you going?”

Allura hid the pepper spray in her pocket. “To find out more about this Lotor Dalir,” she called back, grabbing her phone off a nearby table. “And to knock out his perfect teeth if what you say is true.”  

* * *

 

The woman moved through the many lanes of the pits, searching for Sincline Racing. The semitrailers for the different teams were all neatly stretched out in rows, their awnings a shade over the mechanics as they flurried about their silent top fuel machines. The dragster teams were all working to rebuild or refurbish their engines for the next round. There was a tension in the air from it.

Fans hung around the edges of the trailers, watching and taking pictures as the mechanics worked in a well-timed dance of wrenches and parts.

In the background of it all was the distant sound of super stock cars drag racing to qualify for their bracket—not even half as loud as top fuel, but still an occasional, pleasant roar in the distance, along with Bob’s drifting voice and Bih-Boh-Bii’s translations.

“Sincline Racing,” Allura murmured, narrowing her eyes at the various semitrailers, not recognizing many of the names. “Sincline Racing…”

She knew Lotor Dalir’s tent was somewhere on the far end of the pits, but she could not remember its exact location.

And then other voices began to distract her. “…Is that Singh?”

“Oh, it is! Allura Singh! Allura Singh—can I have your autograph?”

Her blue and purple eyes widened as she was torn from her thoughts by the waves of milling fans, many of whom were waving to her. Others were approaching fast, waving their hats and wristbands.

She managed another pained smile, stretching her pretty face wide as she stared at the first fan before her. “Oh, yes. That is me. I would be happy to give you my autograph, yes. Thank you for you support.”

But even as she signed her name again and again, taking pictures with fans and raising up a peace sign with her happy smile, she felt a chill down her spine—at the thought that these beautiful people had a monster in their midst.

“ _Let me come inside,”_ Lotor had moaned to her, _“and taste what you have.”_

It was several more minutes before she stood within range of _Sincline Racing_ ’s black VIP tent, the pit lane boasting the several semitrailers of the Sincline racers. Nearest to the VIP tent was Lotor Dalir’s trailer, the black side carrying his name in a stylized script that looked Middle Eastern. Beneath its awning was the sleek and dangerous Sincline motorcycle, propped up in silence with various fans milling about it, taking pictures. The trailer had been opened, revealing a smattering of tools and cabinets and spare parts.

Allura tilted her head curiously. It seemed as if Lotor had been preparing to refresh his motorcycle for his next qualification run, but had left unexpectedly.

She chanced a look at the large VIP tent, which hummed with many well-dressed men and women speaking in a multitude of languages as they sat at the elegant tables. They seemed to be enjoying red wine and—as Lotor had promised—cuts of prime rib, the tent’s fans blowing cold air even out into the street.

And then she heard Lotor’s distinct voice, the smooth baritone a lyrical whip of Farsi—quiet, concerned, lilting.

Allura tensed. She turned her head to spot him outside the tent and farther down the lane, toward the trailer that boasted the name _Acxa_. Lotor had tied the arms of his outer motor suit around his waist to look slightly more put-together but was holding a phone to his ear, his head down and face in a pensive, tense bind.

She watched Lotor pace, his phone clenched in his hand tight enough to whiten his knuckles. He paused mid-pace, then spoke again. This time, his voice raised in an all-new language, a fake smile stretching across his handsome face as he stared out at the grandstands.

Allura’s eyes widened. _Punjabi_. He was now speaking flawless Punjabi—her own home language.

“— _you feeling today, mother?_ ”

A pause.

“ _That is good. Very good_.” Another pause. Another false smile. “ _And you remembered to take your medications?_ ”

This time, a more genuine smile. “ _Most excellent. I am glad to hear it._ ” His white hair shifted along his shoulders as he pulled out a cigarette and a lighter from his back pocket, cradling the phone between the crook of his neck and his ear. “ _Yes, mother. You can watch the races—on channel 24, I believe. Although I fear it will not be a live broadcast. You know how it is, with all the downtime between runs. Some of these racing teams—their engines simply fall apart on the track_.”

Another pause. He dragged on his cigarette, looking ethereal as his blue eyes stared out into the crowds. Then he pulled the cigarette from his lips, breathing out a puff of smoke. “ _Of course_ ,” he murmured. “ _I am always careful, you know that_.” Then his voice strained. “ _And, yes, I am careful with that too. How do you even know that I—?_ ”

His beautiful voice cut off in a sharp note. _“—The details of my love life are my own, mother. I will not repeat myself there. And no, I am not bringing a woman home_.” He paused. “ _At least not one you should meet._ ”

Allura’s full lips screwed in an odd way as she listened in, the tension in her body giving way to…what, amusement? Confusion?  

The great Lotor Dalir—it was hard to think of the possibly dangerous man being held accountable to his mother, whoever she was.

It was even more curious to think of him having a sick mother.

(Did she even know who his, apparently Punjabi, mother was?)

(Did it matter?)

Lotor’s voice grew tired. “ _Yes, mother. Father is well. I shall tell him you said hi. Before we hang up, can you put the doctor back on the phone for me?_ ” Another pause. And then he switched back to Farsi, his voice tightening into a more professional, concerned tone. It seemed he was making demands of some kind.

And then he ended the call, dragging hard on his cigarette and looking more frazzled than before. He closed his eyes as he breathed in deep the sharp air of the hot day, his dark temples shining with sweat.

He seemed to revel in the silence for a time, as if it were the first moment he’d had to himself since Zethrid had dragged him back to the pits.

It was strange to see him unsettled, his face lined with stress.

Allura almost thought to approach him then, prepared to interrogate him out in the open about this fan that Romelle said he’d forced.

But before she could move, a little girl came running up to him, trailed shortly by her parents. She was carrying a newly bought shirt from a vendor and a permanent marker. “Lotor Dalir? Lotor Dalir!”

From his height, he barely heard her. He turned around, blowing out smoke from his cigarette, his cobalt eyes landing upon her. “Yes, little one?” His voice was smooth and kind.  

She raised up her meager offerings. “You’re my favorite racer! Can you sign my shirt?”

Allura watched Lotor’s handsome face soften, and damn if it didn’t make something tingle in her to see the sharp lines of his face soften so much. He kneeled down before the little girl to be less intimidating and to hear her better. “Of course. What is your name?” He popped his cigarette back in his mouth and accepted the marker and the shirt, which were damp from the little girl’s sweaty hands.

“Kei,” she said, her voice a squeak. “My name is Kei.”

Lotor straightened out his large, dark palm, focusing intently on the best placement for his writing. His brows furrowed with the action of concentrating. And then he began to write in his harsh, slanted script, and he finished his autograph with a sloppy smiley face.

As he wrote, he twirled the cigarette in his mouth on habit.

In the meantime, the little girl leaned in and asked innocently, “Why do you smoke? It’s bad for you.”  

He flickered his blue eyes back to her, widening them in calculated surprise. “It is?” he murmured, gently handing her back her pen and new shirt. He pulled his cigarette from his mouth, careful not to blow any smoke her way.

“It makes you sick,” she said fervently, eyes wide. “And you can’t be sick if you want to keep racing forever!”

Her mother began to move forward, horrified. “Kei, honey—don’t say things like that—”

Lotor’s lips twitched, and he respectfully waved off the mother’s embarrassment. “No, it is alright.” He lowered the cigarette to the pavement, snuffing its bright end into the asphalt. He gave the little girl a serious look. “I will listen to you. I am grateful to have your support.”

The girl smiled at him, delighted by his actions. “I want you to keep racing for a long, long time!” she said. “So maybe one day I can race against you!”

That split his lips into a great, genuine smile, and he chuckled. It was a light, merry sound. “Yes, I would enjoy that very much.” And then he leaned his hand against the pavement, standing back up to his full height.

From her spot, Allura watched the exchange with increasing consternation, knitting her brows as the sharp, strange man who was Lotor waved goodbye to the little girl, who flounced off on her merry way back to her parents, starstruck for all the right reasons.

Allura’s jaw dropped.

 _This_ was the man who had forced a fan into giving him sexual favors? This man, who called up his sick mother to check on her and so effortlessly respected a child fan?

Allura felt hesitation grow in her now, her face growing a bit hot. She thought back to the way Lotor had pinned her against the fence, remembering the large, open space to her right, where she could have easily slipped away from him. 

She then recalled how he had bent to the will of his crew member named Zethrid, whining about his earring and becoming fully obedient to her at just the mention of _funnel cake_ , like a child.

Everything about him suggested he was a bit loose and epicurean, yes, but so far nothing supported Romelle’s statements that he was a forceful soul.

As Allura debated whether to approach and break the peace, Lotor looked down at his dead cigarette in mourning. He sighed, carding his long fingers through his hair to push it back from his face.  

And then he looked up. And his gaze landed right upon Allura. His cobalt eyes widened in surprise, his fingers freezing midway through the locks of his hair.

She froze as well.

“… _Princess_?” he called to her in consternation, his white brows knitting together. The word slipped from him in something akin to awe, as if she were the last person he had expected to see in the crowd.

Her breath hitched, and suddenly she looked away.

This was it. She could approach him and gauge his reaction to Romelle’s accusation.

Or she could run away—slip into the crowds and pretend like she wasn’t just watching him—

Allura steeled herself, pressing her lips together. And then she began to walk toward him. For as short as she was against him, her aura commanded his every ounce of attention, flaring about like a shadow.

The closer she came to him, the more hesitant his expression grew, as if he knew he were in trouble.

Allura kept her voice quiet, but she was forceful. “There are rumors that you forced a fan into giving you a sexual favor. Is that true?”

Lotor blinked for a time. And then his face twisted. “What?”

She poked his chest, hard. It made him backstep. She was on the offensive now. “My manager says you cornered a poor girl into giving you a blow job,” she hissed. “And I want you to know that I _will_ call security on you if—”

His voice strained as he stared at her, his eyes a bit wide, bewildered. “—Miss Singh,” he cut in as politely as possible. It was the first time he had offered her such a formal title. He raised up his hands. “Your manager is mistaken. Truly, I have never forced anyone to do anything to me.” Despite the wide-eyed look, his voice began to lift in humor. “The blow job was a freely offered favor, I assure you.”

Her face flushed as she stared up at him in disgust. “So you _did_ take advantage of a fan?”

“It is not taking advantage,” he said, his white brows furrowing, “if a woman offers it, and I consent to it.” Of all things, his dark face began to flush in a strange way as he looked down at her. “I am offended by your accusations.”

“I’m offended by _you_ ,” Allura snapped. “Playing like you’re some suave gentleman to all these nice people around, but then you go around insulting me, not taking _no_ for an answer, hitting up your fans like some dirty—”

Lotor pressed his lips together tightly. “—I can take _no_ for an answer, Miss Singh.” His voice grew clipped, the humor fading from him. He pulled out his sleek, black phone and began scrolling through it, his face tense. He then flipped the phone over to her. “But as you will see, my adoring fan was quite…thirsty. I would have any rumors to the contrary quelled immediately. I humbly request your help in dispelling them.”

And there on his phone was a text conversation between himself and some stranger he’d labelled _7.5_ in his phone.

Allura’s eyes widened as she read through the texts, which were truly risqué—but right there was the proof that this 7.5 had obtained his number from someone named Ezor and had begged to meet with him for foreplay.

His strained voice cut into her thoughts as she read through. “You can take down her number and call her to confirm, I care not. But I would not have my reputation muddied in this way.” He pulled his phone away from her, face still tight. “I am a man of honor.”

The woman’s lips were still dropped open a fraction from the before and after texts the two had sent to each other. It seemed Lotor had been interested enough in…doing other things during their next rendezvous. This 7.5 was very interested in those things as well. She looked up at him, her face beet red, and she struggled for words. “Honor?” she repeated incredulously. “You think that your conversation with this girl is honorable?”

“Oh, princess.” He pocketed his phone, giving her a curious look. “We all have needs. If two people desire to satisfy each other for a night or two, what is the crime?” 

She struggled for words. “W-well, it’s just that a gentleman wouldn’t—”

“—A gentleman,” Lotor murmured to her, “does not leaving a wanting woman unsatisfied, especially when she asks so nicely. Furthermore, I do request that you keep the more intimate details of Miss 7.5 between us. I would hate to cause her unwarranted shame from the conservative crowds.”

Allura made a noise in the back of her throat. It sounded like something between a scoff and a squeak.

It was then that Lotor leaned in a bit, his handsome face glimmering with a fresh spark of humor. “My, my. Look at that blush on you.”

“I am not blushing,” she hissed to him.

“I have never seen such a pretty shade of red before,” he murmured in interest, his lips stretching. “Have I embarrassed you? I do hope so, for it would only be fair after you embarrassed me with your wicked accusation.”

She raised a finger. “Well, I—”

He waved her off suddenly, in a gallant, gracious way. “—No need to apologize, though, as I believe you acted in concern for Miss 7.5.” He narrowed his eyes in a playful way. “Which makes this all an unexpected but interesting discovery about your moral passions, princess. I should like to learn more about what fires up that righteous, lion heart of yours. But for now, I need to get back to the wife.”

This time, her eyebrows flew so high that she feared they would fall off her face. “ _Wife_?”

It was then that the last of the tension from his face fell away into merriment. “My bike, love,” he teased, enjoying her shocked expression, and then her resulting, unimpressed face-fault. He began to walk away. “But I wouldn’t mind if you tried for the title!”   

And Allura stomped her foot and then surged away in a mad blush, damning herself, and Lotor, and Romelle.

Her face screwed up in such an odd twist that she was sure she frightened a few people.

* * *

 

The rest of the day flew by in a blur of a second round of qualifications. Keith overtook Acxa’s second place in the pro stock motorcycle bracket and came close to tying with Lotor, whose lead was now tenuous at best.

The competition was beginning to steepen, the air growing more serious as placements began to depend on only hundredths of a second. But the asphalt of the drag strip soared over 100 degrees Fahrenheit, making tires slipperier and forcing the top fuel teams to recalibrate the computers on their machines for more control. The last-minute recalibrations meant that Allura remained in second place behind Zarkon, with Lance and several other teams vying for a top spot.

Despite the cheers of the crowd, the vision of the Olkari International Championship trophy wavered in her mind for the first time.

The thought that she might not win was one she had never before entertained. It was enough to distract her entirely from Lotor Dalir, who’d thankfully stayed out of her way for the rest of the day. She assumed that he had been busy refreshing his Sincline motorcycle and preparing for his second run.

Which was fine by her.

She did not need his strange brand of attention in her life.

She just needed that trophy.

Lance’s voice echoed in her ears. “Think about it this way, Allura,” he said easily, cutting into her thoughts. At that moment, they were walking down the luxurious hallways of the _Altea_ —a five-star hotel overlooking Olkari City—which their large suitcases rolling behind them. Lance’s handsome face was worn with the same exhaustion as hers, but his brown eyes still gleamed with a spark of life. “You’ve been wanting a serious challenge, and now you’ve got it.”

She groaned. “Your words smack of an _I told you so_.”

“…Well, I mean.” He gave her a sideways look, and then he raised his voice to mimic hers. “Oh, Lance. I’m so _bored_. All these other racing teams are just terrible. I can’t wait until we make it to internationals just so I can—”

“—Shh!” she cut him off, giving him a playful glare. She lowered her voice into a tight whisper. “There’s people trying to sleep at this hour. You’ll get us kicked out.”

He scoffed at her, raising his sharp chin. “Oh, come on.” He waggled his eyebrows. “You think management can kick out this gorgeous face?”

Allura leaned in, her full lips stretching. “You just have to open that mouth of yours, and they absolutely will.”

Lance face-faulted. And he nudged her with his elbow. “But _you_ can’t resist me, even with this mouth of mine.” He drew closer to her, giving her bedroom eyes. 

His lips were not terribly far from her own like this.

She murmured to him in a deepening alto voice husked with attraction, playing along, “I can’t resist you _because_ of that mouth.” She moved a bit closer, her lips nearly brushing his.

For a second, they held together that way.

And then the two of them began to snicker like naughty children, their breaths mixing in the small space between their lips. When Lance smiled, he lit up the whole room. “We should save this kind of talk,” he chuckled, “for when _Top Fuel Magazine_ ’s around.”

Allura pulled away and swatted his chest. “According to them, you’re supposed to propose to me after your twentieth birthday. And I’ll have you know, it’s all your fault—it really is. If you hadn’t flirted with me back in Thayserix just to get media attention, we wouldn’t be in this whole predicament.”

“Oh, man. You read that too?” His lips stretched in a handsome smile. “The proposal thing?”

“Yes!” she complained. “Before you started with all this flirting, people asked me serious questions. About _Blue_ , about my father. Now, all they want to know is my thoughts on having babies and whether I qualify as a cougar, given our age gap.”

It was around then that Allura thought she smelled a waft of cigarette smoke in the air, but she waved it off as her imagination.

Lance made a face. “It’s only four years. And technically less than that.”

“Yes, but it’s apparently enough that I get teased for it,” she pouted.

“Maybe you just like younger guys who can show you a good time,” he shrugged. “You know, who make you feel pretty.” He waggled his brows. “Who have to work hard to buy you something sparkly.”

She turned to him and hummed. “I do love something sparkly.”

The handsome man flashed her his signature smirk. “I could get you some razzle-dazzle, princess, to put on that finger of yours. And then we’d really throw media for a loop.”

Allura’s beautiful face split in a lighthearted laugh, despite the dirt and grime on her and the ache of loss in her heart. She always knew Lance could cheer her up. “What a _mess_ that would be.”

“I know, right?” he chuckled. “It’d be great. Our merchandise would skyrocket. The fans would start calling us by our ship name.” He snapped his fingers, trying to remember. “What is it again? Allurance? Lanura?”

She deadpanned, “I think it’s the former.”

“Right. That one.”

By that point, they had arrived at Allura’s door—room 2121. She stopped and began rummaging through her jacket pocket for her key. She slipped it into the lock and then opened the door. “Well, I guess this is me. I plan on getting up early tomorrow to—”

Lance’s lanky but broad frame appeared beside her. “—Hey, before we break for the night, could I come in for a second?” he asked, the humor in his boyish face faltering with seriousness.

She turned to look up at him, eyebrows furrowing. “Sure.”

And then she opened the door. The _Altea_ ’s suites were roomy, with designer white comforters and gold and silver accents, the walls glimmering with expensive, soft lights. Allura was already eyeing the king-sized bed in want as she entered, pulling her suitcase forward.  

Lance followed her, setting aside his own suitcase before gently closing the door. He bit his lip and rubbed the back of his neck. “Look, I uh...I saw earlier today, where that pro stock guy—Lotor Dalir—was giving you a hard time before and after your race. I couldn’t get away to help then. But if you need me to step in and say something to him, just let me know, okay?”

His voice was soft.

“You know I can protect myself,” she said dryly.

Lance gave her a flat look. “Yeah, I know. But you’re…I mean, you’re really pretty.” The compliment was soft and genuine. “He goes after pretty girls like you.”

Despite all of their previous flirtations, it was the first time that Allura felt Lance’s words were meaningful. It inspired a small tinge of a blush across her face as she stared at his earnest expression.

Her voice grew hesitant, thinking back to her most recent confrontation with him. “I’m sure I’ll be fine, Lance. If he does try anything, I have pepper spray from Romelle, and I can run him over with _Blue_.”

He raised a finger. “Yes. Run him over with _Blue_. Maybe a couple of the times, just for good measure.”

It was then that a thought struck Allura. “Wait,” she said suddenly. “Even better. Do you think he would leave me alone entirely if he knew I were taken?”

Lance gave her a strange look. “You mean, like, already in a relationship?”

“Yes, that.”

He scratched his ear and hummed. “…Probably? But where are you gonna find a boyfriend this fast?”

She crossed her arms and raised a brow at him.

Lance, oddly, began to blush as his eyes widened. “What, you mean _me_?”

Allura looked a little mischievous. “The media already thinks we’re an item—and you like the extra attention it affords you. Why not play it up a bit more? Just for the race? It’d save me from all the legal fallout of running over Lotor Dalir, and you know how much I hate paperwork.”

The boy sputtered. His face grew a genuine red. “Allura—I, uh—umm.” He cleared his throat, his voice tightening. “That’s a thought.”

Allura narrowed her perceptive eyes. “…Unless there’s some other girl you _actually_ like at this race? And you haven’t told me?”

His eyes widened then, and he looked a bit guilty. “What? No! No, I just, uh—” he scratched the back of his neck in a nervous habit.

“—I’d hate to ruin anything between you and a secret sweetheart,” she said, plopping on her stomach onto the bed and leaning her chin in her hand, eyes wide with conspiracy. “You can tell me who it is, you know.”

The handsome boy was struggling to meet her eyes. “Yeah, I know.”

She tilted her head and then bit her lip. “But you don’t have to,” she said quickly, softening her tone. “If you don’t want to.” Her words doubled for several causes. She added, “I can certainly handle Lotor Dalir on my own without dragging you into it, I’m sure.”

Lance’s face softened with affection. “Well,” he said, his voice turning with humor, “if you need a white knight to swoop in, I’ll do it and make us look _good_ in front of _Top Fuel Magazine_ too.” He sniffed a bit airily, the blush from his face slipping back into the handsome brown of his skin. He waggled his brows. “I’ve even got the white armor to play the white knight.”

The woman on the bed giggled. “I know you do.”   

“You’d have to wait on the razzle-dazzle, though,” he said playfully. “ _Mi abuela_ won’t let me have her engagement ring until she interrogates the girl of my dreams.”

That made Allura laugh. “Oh, dear. That sounds harrowing.”

“You better believe it.” He opened the door and began to move his suitcase out, his point made. “Good night, ‘Lura,” he called to her softly, using her old nickname from when they were children. “Try to get some sleep tonight, okay?”

“You too! Don’t stay up playing video games with Hunk and Pidge!”

“Oh. You can _bet_ that’s gonna happen.”  

And then the door closed.

Allura lowered her face to the soft, white comforter, sighing. She tapped her fingers on the comforter, thoughts in a swirl of turmoil. As she lay there, her mind wandered from potential adjustments for _Blue Lion_ to her increasingly convoluted experiences with Lotor Dalir, remember him speaking her own mother tongue with his smooth voice, seeing the righteous indignancy in his eyes when she’d accused him of being dishonorable—

And then that decadent, sinful mouth of his, throwing around the word _wife_.  

_“I wouldn’t mind if you tried for the title!”_

Allura groaned and hid her face in the comforter. "Get out of my head," she whispered to him. 

Oddly, she could envision him sitting down in the middle of her mind, carelessly lighting a cigarette and murmuring, " _But darling, I quite like it here_." 

* * *

 

Allura took a quick shower to wash off the dust and grime from her body, and then she dressed in her swimsuit, intent on the hotel hot tub. Her muscles were sore from the g-force of her dragster and from helping Hunk and the team tow it around. The computer on Blue Lion had calculated that she’d hit nearly 8 Gs of force on her last run, which had knocked her hard against her restraints the instant she’d deployed her parachutes. Her ribs still felt tight, with several muscles pulled, and in pulling off her clothes, she’d noticed a small smattering of bruises along her right side from the brutal lock of her safety belts.

Now, she was desperate to relax the tension in her body as well as all the tension in her mind.

Soon, she enough entered the swimming room, the smell of pool chemicals striking her, along with the sound of the hot tub humming in the corner. The lights were dim now that it was nearly midnight, the bay windows surrounding the room dark.

She inhaled deeply—and noticed it again.

Cigarette smoke.

“Oh,” she said, eyes wide as she froze. Her voice echoed unsteadily off the walls.

There, lounging in the large hot tub, was one Lotor Dalir. He was leaning his muscled arms against the ledge, his wet face glimmering with the soft lights from above. His long, white hair trailed against the ledge and down his broad, naked chest. Several strands floated in the bubbling water, flicking about as if of their own volition.

In his right hand was a lit cigarette. And in his left hand was a half-full glass of red wine.

At the sound of her voice, his cobalt eyes snapped to her. The dim light shadowed part of his face, but in that moment, he looked to be something out of a modeling magazine, the darkness revealing the hard angles of his face.

The two stared at each other in silence.

And then, he raised his cigarette up to her in something of a mocking wave before dragging on it hard, lighting the end a deep red that seemed to reflect in his eyes. “The princess,” he greeted, his beautiful voice rough as if he had smoked a full pack of cigarettes. “What a surprise.”

The tension in his voice snapped her back to reality. Allura swallowed hard and then tried to nervously smile. “So you’re, uh, staying in this hotel too.”

He breathed out smoke that wafted up with the steam from the hot tub. He closed his eyes as he leaned back to his original position, something in his face tense. “The _Altea_ is my favorite hotel.”

She hadn’t known that—but she was damning Coran for not knowing it either. Allura eyed his cigarette and his glass of wine in partial concern. “What are you doing here, like this?” she dared to ask, her face twisting in confusion.

“Unwinding,” he confessed, raising his face to the ceiling, as if in pain. “I accepted a woman into my bed, and she was absolutely determined to suck the life out of me.”

She realized then that upon his elegant neck, just over his carotid artery, was a hickey, with some light scratch marks down his shoulder. They gleamed red in the dim light, suggesting they were quite recent.

Allura blushed, quickly looking away at the man, realizing that he’d just had sex. Fairly wild sex at that. “Oh, dear,” she stuttered. Her voice strained. “Um, I’m going to—uh, to leave.” Her voice strained.

With a deep inhale, Lotor turned his neck toward her, his white hair slipping against his skin. He dared to open his eyes, which were half-lidded in exhaustion but still glinting with an odd humor. “What did you come down here for, princess? Surely not to gaze at the pool if you are already dressed for one.” His eyes roved over her strong frame, noting her pink flip flops, the smooth, taut lines of her legs, and the baggy shirt obstructing his view of her hips and her chest. Her hair was up in a sloppy, cute bun.

Lotor’s eyes swept to hers, searching her in curiosity.

She struggled to hold his gaze, even as she strengthened her voice. “I was planning to use the hot tub as well after my long day, but…” She trailed off and waved helplessly at him. “You’re here.”

He huffed in amusement at her, his thin lips stretching to reveal white teeth. He looked like a fallen angel with the carnal markings upon his skin. “I do not bite, love. There is plenty of room if you should like to relax as well.”

Something in his gaze made her feel as though she were being childish. Her face flushed as she stared at the scratches down his shoulders. “No, no,” she said. “You were here first. I don’t want to interrupt your…uh, unwinding.”

Her voice caught oddly on the last word.

Lotor narrowed his eyes playfully at her. “Do I hear derision from you, princess? Do you find me so abhorrent that you would refuse to share a similar space with me?”

Her face flushed up to the tips of her ears. “Well, I—”

“—If this is in regards to my love bites,” he murmured to her, eyeing her hesitance and the way she was focused in partial disgust on his marks, “I bathed before I got in.”

Allura swallowed hard. “I just…don’t want to be alone here with you,” she admitted freely, her voice echoing hard. “And I don’t like cigarette smoke.”

His white brow quirked up, even as he seemed to grow tired. “Oh, come now.” And then he took his cigarette and smashed the butt against the cement ledge. “Do you honestly still think me a savage?”

Her voice deadpanned. “Our previous conversations would suggest little else about you.” But the words held a cheap fire to them after the day's events, and she felt a bit guilty.  

Lotor seemed almost offended, his lips pulling down in a hard line. “I thought we talked about this. Meanwhile, for all my efforts, _you_ have not apologized for throwing a can at my head and accusing me falsely.” He raised his wine glass to his mouth, his beautiful voice turning in a dark way. “Perhaps _I_ should be the one concerned for my safety.”

He was trying to bait her. It worked.

She pursed her lips before saying, voice raised, “You insulted me. And you still speak to me like some creep. Perhaps you get away with such disrespect to other women, but you will not with me.”

Lotor sipped from his wine, staring at her with those cobalt eyes. His lips shined with alcohol, and he licked his upper lip. His tongue seemed long, reddened with the wine. “Oh, love,” he finally pouted in a playful way, his handsome face in a twist. “You should know that I have the highest respect for women, you included. Truly, it is _me_ they walk all over.”

Allura did not look amused as she eyed his hickeys and the scratches down his arms, raising a brow. “My name’s not love,” she deadpanned. “And don’t act like you’re suffering.” She waved her hand at his marked body. “You’re obviously enjoying whatever…walking over you’ve had.”

This time, his pout seemed genuine. With his free hand, he ran his long fingers down the love bite on his neck, running his fingertip in a circle around the reddened bruise. That sinful finger of his trailed down then to his chest, circling another love bite around his right nipple. “On the contrary,” he murmured. “Watching you storm up to me earlier, with those righteously angry eyes, gave me a greater rush than she did.”

The woman felt herself grow hesitant again, his words bordering on a flirtation. She nervously scratched at her elbow. “I should leave,” she said suddenly. “This was—it’s all a mistake, to be here.” She swallowed hard and gave him a polite nod of her head. “Have a good night, Mr. Dalir.”

Lotor watched her. “Wait,” he called out to her. “…Please.”

She looked up at him.

His voice strained. “It is true that I have a taste for pleasure, and that I indulge this when I can. But I do not want you to mistake me as a dangerous man for it. If you stay, I will not seek to offend or disgrace you.”

Allura felt something in her catch oddly, like butterflies in her stomach. “Why would you want me to stay? We are not friends.”

His handsome face stretched with something meant to disarm her—soft and more genuine. “Because you intrigue me, princess,” he confessed openly. “I should like to ask you questions, genuine ones. And I see the tension in you—you are favoring your right side. I would not want to keep you from finding relief in these healing waters.” He raised an arm over the ledge of the hot tub, his long fingers casting rivers of water onto the stone. His forearm boasted thick veins over his muscles. He leaned his chin against his arm, eying her like some otherworldly water sprite. “Truly, it does wonders for a pulled muscle or two.”  

The woman hesitated. She really had wanted to use the hot tub, and so she bit her lip for a time. And then she said, “…Fine. But if you make me uncomfortable, I’m leaving.”

Lotor’s lips stretched brightly, revealing his sharp canine teeth. “It is a deal, princess.”

Allura was turned to the side as she pulled off her baggy t-shirt, revealing the smooth of her dark skin and her pink bikini. She stared at him, as if daring him to say or do anything inappropriate.

He simply sipped on his red wine and turned back to his original position in the hot tub.

She almost self-consciously walked over, her arms crossed over her chest—which in fact did not so much hide her cleavage as it did further accentuate it. She grabbed onto the railing and dipped a delicate foot into the hot tub, boasting a thin golden chain on her ankle. She stepped down the stairs, exhaling in pleasure. “Oh,” she said with a sigh. “This does feel good.”

The sound she made—like that of a pleased woman coming down from a high—inspired Lotor’s eyes to linger on her, his face tightening. He was suddenly watching her mouth and the way the hot water slipped around the swell of her hips. And then her body turned left as she sat down, and he caught sight of a large, angry bruise across her ribs.

All thoughts of attraction squelched hard.

His eyes did not leave the bruise, even as she adjusted to face him. His thin lips pulled downward in a frown. “What are those from, love?”

“What’s what?”

“The marks on your side.”

She looked down at herself, having forgotten about her bruises. Her face flushed, and she pressed her lips together tightly. “It’s nothing,” she said, thankful for the water that shielded her

Lotor did not seem convinced, his handsome face darkening in something that looked like almost concern. He lifted his wine glass and sipped from it as he stared at her. Then his beautiful voice lifted in a calculated, casual tone. “Did someone do that to you?”

Allura’s blue and purple eyes met his, widening. “What? No,” she laughed, a bit nervously. “It is just from _Blue_.” She was now beginning to feel self-conscious and damned herself for not bringing a more conservative suit.

“Blue?”

“ _Blue Lion_. My dragster. You see, the deceleration is quite forceful, and somehow my safety belt had twisted.” She self-consciously lowered a bit further into the water so that it bubbled over her shoulders. “That twist packed a punch at 8 Gs.”

“Ah,” he said. While a peculiar relief lifted the darkness from his eyes, he still stared at her for a time. “How strange. So you not only correct me in regards to your skill, but you also correct me in regards to the safety of your sport.” The man almost seemed to struggle to look away from the bruises on her side before his eyebrow quirked, and he swept his gaze up to her. “You are a woman of many surprises, princess.”

She half-awkwardly rubbed her elbow. “Yes, well—”

Lotor leaned forward. “—Unless,” he murmured playfully in a tease to hide his concern for her, “you are attempting to cover up quite the ‘unwinding’ time of your own.” He raised his wine glass to take another sip. “A woman like yourself surely enjoys a wild ride.”

Allura blinked at that and then her face flushed. “Oh,” she said. “Well, I wouldn’t know. I’ve never slept with anyone.”

Lotor choked on his wine. It was a hitched noise in his throat, as if the wine went down the wrong way. His cobalt eyes widened as he coughed into his hand a few times, the sound a rough echo. His voice was hoarse in surprise. “What?” 

She huffed, eyes wide, “You asked about ‘unwinding’ time, and I answered you honestly.”

His eyes narrowed on her in shock. He entirely forgot his promise to be a gentleman in that moment, and he asked incredulously, “You are a virgin?”

She grew defensive. “Well, yes. I don’t just sleep around with anyone as you do. I actually have standards.”

Lotor suddenly inhaled sharply. He quickly set down his wine glass on the ledge and pulled himself up from the waters, his lithe muscles—and his scratches—catching the light. “Oh, no,” he moaned, voice halted. “I must leave.”

Allura’s face twisted in a confused smattering of embarrassment and irritation. After all he’d done to get her to stay— “You’re leaving?”  

“Yes.” His voice was rough. His eyes caught onto hers as he kneeled at the ledge, the lithe lines of his body tense. “I promised you I would not flirt or offend. And I am suddenly desiring to do nothing more than that.” He pulled himself up into a stand, flinging his hair back. “I must go before I break my word entirely.”

Her face twisted farther. “Wait, wait—what do you mean, flirt or offend? _Which one_?”

“Likely both, love,” he moaned to her, pulling a towel from the stand with a sharp snap of his wrist. “I assumed your act of innocence was part of your branding as the pink-lollipop rookie, but I see now that you are genuine.” He looked a little imbalanced as he stared at her, as if the alcohol and dehydration had done a number on him. His eyes were dilated. “You are _genuinely_ innocent.”

Allura gave him an odd look, her face flushing. “What’s wrong with that?”  

“Nothing, princess.” The distance between them was greater than before, but yet it felt as if he were murmuring something soft in her ear. He delicately slid a finger down the hickey upon his neck. “The fact is, I respect it. No wonder you find me so contrary, or that you blushed so red upon reading my texts.”  

And then Lotor Dalir grabbed his bottle of red wine from a nearby table and raised it. “A toast to your high standards,” he said, voice rough. “May you know how blessed you are for having them.”

The man then unceremoniously brought the wine bottle to his lips and began to drink from it, raising his chin upward.

He turned around, revealing more scratch marks down his muscled back and sides.

And he left one blushing Allura Singh sitting alone in the hot tub. She looked, for the first time since they’d met, ashamed of herself for all too many reasons.

* * *

 

Soon, the barefoot Lotor stood in the hotel hallway, a wet towel over his dripping shoulders as he half-drunkenly tried to get into his room, still a bit flustered by the revelation of Allura Singh’s virginity. He blearily slipped his hotel card into the door, cursing at it in Farsi before it finally obeyed him and opened.

He trudged in. Then he set down his mostly empty bottle of red wine on the desk and looked about his luxurious room. His bed was still a wreck, pillows and blankets knocked off the mattress from his wild romp with a pro stock motorcyclist named Merla. It seems she’d left for her own room at _Hotel Daibazaal_ —the preferred hotel for most anyone associated with Galra Tech.

He hadn’t expected her to stay. She never did.

But it bothered him that once again, she had not picked up after herself, instead leaving him with the mess to clean up while she trounced off to a perfectly tidy hotel suite of her own.

Lotor’s thin lips twitched downward as he stared at the bed, running his finger around the hickey on his chest.

“ _We gotta get you a girl_ ,” Zethrid’s deadpan echoed in his ear, “ _before you end up fucking this thing_.”

He huffed. His long fingers—anxious for something to do, to touch, to cling to—reached forward to the desk, grabbing onto his lighter and a pack of cigarettes. He muttered to himself, “I would have been better off with the bike.”

 _Or with Allura_ , came the snarky, little wanton voice in the back of his head.  

The cigarette in his hand flared to life with a puff of smoke and an ember of red. He dragged on it hard, knitting his eyebrows in fervent emotion as the nicotine surged from his lungs to ends of his rattled nerves. “Allura,” he breathed out, as if to see how her true name felt in his mouth, on his lips.  

Allura Singh, who had stared at the marks of passion upon his skin as if they were the plague.

Allura Singh, who was a sweet little spitfire with 10,000 horsepower and, surprisingly, a virginity card.

He popped his cigarette back into his mouth and then unceremoniously shrugged out of his wet swim trucks, grabbing his regular pants from off the floor. His white hair, still wet on the ends, swung about with the action until it plastered against his cheek and shoulders.

He moaned in some kind of disappointment and irritation, as the princess’s name sounded far too sweet in his mouth. It was surely a crime, to even _sound_ so innocent. 

The man inhaled even harder on his cigarette then as he dressed himself, his fingers brushing against a love bite on his lower abdomen. It almost burned him as he recalled her beautiful eyes staring at him in disgust.

“ _And don’t act like you’re suffering_ ,” came her mocking voice in his mind. “ _You’re obviously enjoying whatever…walking over you’ve had._ ”

Lotor pulled the cigarette away from his mouth, cradling it between two fingers as he flipped the light on over the hotel office desk.

He desperately needed a distraction before he did something stupid, like track down little miss Allura Singh and offer to let her walk all over him too.

The dark wood still boasted schematics from his previous night’s musings, along with his favorite pencil and eraser. He chanced a look at them before he pushed the schematics aside and grabbed onto the graph paper pad. With little preamble, he sunk into the office chair, his face tightening in thought. He puffed on his cigarette once more as he spun his favorite sketching pencil around his long fingers.

He began to draw crisp, thin lines, arching his wrist to create a sleek arc. A trail of smoke slipped up from his mouth as he focused. But it was around then that a black and gray cat, which he’d snuck in earlier through his duffel bag, jumped onto the desk.

The cat stretched out its long legs, the desk lamp catching the glimmer of blue in its fur. It yawned before nuzzling its soft face against his forearm.

Lotor’s brow twitched, and he said, voice muffled, “Not now, Kova.” He rolled the cigarette in his mouth as his white brows knitted, his handsome face pensive. “I am working.”

The sleek cat meowed at him, its yellow eyes glimmering in dissatisfaction.

Lotor lowered his pencil for a time to scratch the cat’s head, right at the odd, orange streak of fur that slipped down to its shoulders. “Hush, little one. You are not even supposed to be in here. Do not get me kicked out.”

Then he returned to his sketching.

The cat slinked down and began to lazily bat at Lotor’s hand with its soft, small paws, its long, thin tail slipping against the other forgotten schematics.

Lotor’s lips thinned in a mix of mild amusement and irritation, and he continued onward with his design. “This is important,” he murmured to the cat. “I have discovered that the princess is racing with her sweet ass strapped to an unsafe rust bucket. And that simply will not do. It will not.” His face twisted in a downturn at the thought of his own insults at the safety of her sport.

Kova watched him with intelligent eyes.

The man’s cobalt gaze narrowed on the cat. “What?” he huffed, pulling out his cigarette from his mouth with his left hand. He breathed out a soft stream of smoke. “Can I not take interest in my father’s rival?”

The cat nuzzled once more against his fingers, as if to say, _Why are you not paying more attention to me?_

Lotor did not have the heart to deny him. He lowered his pencil and swept his hand along the full of Kova’s back. In return, he received a pleased purr.

“You see,” the man murmured to the cat, “most dragsters are built custom for their drivers. But the princess is riding in an antique built for another person and modified for her body—and not, I think, to the extent it should be.” He dragged on his cigarette. “Incompetency is what it is, Kova. Imperfection. You know how I feel about these things.”  

The cat meowed, turning on its back. Lotor gave him an affectionate rub across his belly before returning to his work, grabbing his pencil and tapping its end on the desk.

And as the minutes gave way into an hour, and as his slight drunken buzz slipped away, the sketchy lines configured into a custom safety restraint system for Allura Singh’s _Blue Lion_.

Lotor’s voice was muffled by his cigarette as he remeasured a few of the lines, eyes focused. “We must protect the princess, Kova. Those ribs of hers are far too precious to be bruised.” He pulled the cigarette from his mouth, blowing smoke. “Except, to make this harness truly fitted, I need to know her exact height and weight. And her breast size.”  

Kova meowed tiredly.

“You are right, old boy.” He dragged on his cigarette and puffed out a breath of smoke, his lips stretching in a genuine, fond smile. “I am going to get punched when I ask her. And it will be worth it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I’m back with more trash! Bless anyone who still likes this ridiculous AU, haha. As a quick note, “Merla” is a reference to a 1984 Voltron: Defender of the Universe character. In the show, she was a powerful, antagonistic warrior who briefly considered betrothal to Lotor. (I so wish VLD would leverage her, omg.) 
> 
> In good news, I have been blessed with more fanart of Adrenaline Rush! A heartfelt thanks to Gyodragon for taking a liking to this story and drawing [a profile of Lotor in his motor suit](http://gyodragon.tumblr.com/post/177580396576/adrenaline-rush), [some closeups of Lotor and Allura](http://gyodragon.tumblr.com/post/177818632741/adrenaline-rush-more-of-the-ar-human-lotor-and), [this hilarious comic](http://gyodragon.tumblr.com/post/177643278816/impossibly-loud-engine-sounds-in-the-background), [Allura smiling adorably](http://gyodragon.tumblr.com/post/177822410626/ar-humanallura-singh-with-dark-roots), and [this great image of the trash boi living it up in the hot tub](http://gyodragon.tumblr.com/post/177677106596/actually-i-did-really-want-to-post-this-because). Please check out and support gyodragon’s work! 
> 
> Please let me know if you’d like to see me write more to this! Thanks!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the following for reviewing last time: CrystalRebellion, MrsKohakuSato, anything_past_or_present, tuonetar, IndiiBrownFlower, Sachianna, EllieDoll, Shorthairedme, destinyofamerath, garbage_dono, TheNumberFour, mistress+m, Rory, !!!, bombshells, NickyADon, PetulantPanda, Mythicamagic, gothlotor, TheCelestialUnicorn, Akapine, Guest, Rebecca, Shyalpacasweets, HymnForDeath, Lady_Experiment, Guest2, Usbt, Alice, Gyogyo, AfroditeOhki, RogueSareth, LunarMagnolia, and Yeah_Justsmile! I really appreciate all the feedback and encouragement you all provided me. It means a lot! 
> 
> Thank you as well for your patience regarding my extended hiatus on this story. I hope you enjoy this next chapter!

Allura sleepily trudged down the hallway to the hotel’s main lobby, which contained a bar and a small bistro serving breakfast. Her eyes were bleary as she covered a yawn. She had struggled to fall asleep the previous evening between her anticipation for the next day’s races and uneasiness about her interactions with Lotor Dalir.

She groaned to herself as she rubbed her cheek. 

Virginity to Lotor appeared to be the rough equivalent of sunlight to a vampire, and she did not know what to make of that. She hadn’t meant to reveal so much about herself, but she had been so irritated by his smarmy, self-satisfaction about his prolific love life—she couldn’t help but snap.

Her discontent riled up again despite knowing she should be happy he had left her alone. _How dare he act like **I** am the diseased one_ , she thought petulantly to herself, a wrinkle creasing her brow. _Running away and trying to cover it up with something about standards—_

But as she entered the casual bistro, she stopped mid-stride, her thoughts freezing hard with surprise and a skip of her heart.

“—be all for you, Mr. Dalir?”

“…Yes, Morvok,” echoed a familiar, velvet voice that was oddly strained. “Thank you.”

“Anytime. Say hello to your father for me.”

A moan. “Of course.”

Allura hesitantly turned the bend, her own dark curiosity spurning her forward to catch sight of the chef just as he disappeared back behind the swinging door to the kitchen. And there, sitting at the bar counter, was Lotor Dalir. He wore jeans and an old, white tank top, his heavy boots hooked onto one of the supports of the bar stool. His broad shoulders were hunched over, his white hair in a tumble down his shoulders—the result being several strands straggling down his cheek. It curled on the ends to suggest his natural style held a wave to it.  

He sat in the silence by himself, a plate of eggs before him, nursing a lit cigarette in his left hand as he...dumped a shot glass of alcohol into his coffee cup?

Allura couldn’t help herself. “What are you doing?” she demanded, eyes wide.  

Lotor’s body tensed. He set aside the empty shot glass and then raised his long fingers to his temples, cradling his cigarette between his index and middle finger. His handsome face twisted. “Be careful with me, love,” he pleaded, his beautiful voice breaking with a moan as his white brows crinkled. “My head is pounding. I am in pain.”

The woman gaped at him, still staring at the empty shot glass and the way he stiffly raised his coffee cup and sipped upon the drink. Her face twisted. “Are you…hung over?”

He delicately set down his cup and then tiredly inhaled on his cigarette. He breathed out a puff of smoke. “Oh, absolutely. Yes.”

Her voice raised with incredulity despite his request to remain soft. “And you’re drinking? At—” she slid her eyes to the wall clock— “ _six_ in the morning?”

Lotor’s voice was petulant as he rubbed his temple again. “It helps.”

Allura scoffed. “No—you’re simply dehydrating yourself, which is why you have a headache to begin with with.”

His sleepy, worn face slid to her, his cobalt eyes widening in surprise as he realized that Allura Singh was standing before him, wearing a bathrobe and a bright pink pajama set with little cartoon unicorns, her long hair in an unkempt pile down her shoulders.

His thin lips stretched at the sight of her despite his pain. “Are you mother-henning me?” He jauntily dragged on his cigarette, lighting the end a hard red, and he breathed out a smooth puff of smoke her way. His voice roughened with it. “How precious you are, with your righteous worries and unicorns.”   

The woman’s face twisted with confusion before she looked down at herself and realized she was in fact still wearing her pajamas in front of Lotor Dalir. She bit her lip, a flush of embarrassment lighting her dark cheeks before she looked back up in a pout. “Don’t be snarky with me,” she snapped, waving her nimble hand to his coffee cup. A more genuine concern worked its way into her voice and onto her face. She couldn’t believe a man as attractive as him would have such terrible habits. “You can’t just drink alcohol at six in the morning!”  

“On the contrary,” he said, his beautiful voice whimsical despite the roughness of sleep-deprivation and pain. “There is nothing I cannot do.” And he more fully spun the bar stool around to face her, downing the rest of his coffee-whiskey. In doing so, his entire being seemed to surge with a spark of life, the pained tension on his face giving way to a delight. He set down the now-empty coffee cup with a sharp snap of ceramic onto the bar counter.  

Allura face-faulted as she stood there, crossing her arms. “You know what I mean.”

“I fear I do not,” he murmured to her, spinning his cigarette expertly between his fingers. It seemed he liked having something to fiddle with. “Why don’t you come here and tell me about it, love. It might help my headache.”

“My name’s not love,” she snapped. “It’s Allura. And no, I see you’ve decided to be a jerk today—” she stomped forward and grabbed the cigarette directly from his mouth, her calloused fingers brushing against his surprised lips in doing so— “and this is a no-smoking hotel.” She dropped the cigarette onto his nearby plate of cold eggs. “Respect that.”

The action of her touch made him pause, his surprised gaze searching her. And then he closed his eyes, his beautiful voice deepening with a pleased groan. He liked this woman—oh did he like her righteous, vicious spirit. He licked his bottom lip to taste the haunting salt of her fingers. “Mmh. That is awfully forward of you, darling.” His voice dropped with a pout. “If I had a clear mind, I would think of something forward to say in return.”  

“Don’t even start with that,” she retorted. “And for the last time, my name is _Allura_ , not love or darling or whatever sort of pet names you give people.” 

He opened one eye, playful. The sleep in him and his headache was beginning to wear away, the more he stared at her. Allura Singh was so far the best cure for a hangover he had ever encountered. He even liked the cute unicorn print on her pajamas. “I fear,” he said merrily, “that your true name is too sweet for me to say. I should hate to corrupt it with as dirty a mouth as mine. How about I just call you princess.” He tilted his head, his white hair fanning down a broad shoulder. He still rubbed his temple some, a tension in his face remaining from the pain of his hangover.

Allura stared at him, her face tightening with incredulity and irritation. “Are you mocking me?”

“No, princess,” he murmured to her, pulling his arm away from the counter to lean forward on his seat. In doing so, his hair slipped away from his shoulders, revealing the remains of his scratches from his previous night’s lovemaking. A hickey still glimmered dark on the side of his neck and upon his strong collarbone. “I rather admire you, now that I know you better.”  

She crossed her arms. “Oh, sure— _admiration_ like last night, when you insulted me for what I am.”

For a time, his white brow crinkled in confusion, and he murmured under his breath, “For what you—?” There was a brief moment where he seemed to be rummaging through the files in his mind. And then his face lit up with recognition, the pain easing from him, only for his lips to pull into a playful smirk. “Ah. I thought I made it clear that I _respect_ your virginity—”

She immediately regretted her decision to bring it up. “—Please do not say it so loud,” she hissed to him quietly, face blushing. She looked left and right at the fairly abandoned bistro and bar, paranoid. “I don’t want the whole world knowing my business, if you don’t mind!”

Lotor leaned forward. “And I,” he murmured, “think it rather fair, since you broadcasted to the heavens about the whiskey in my coffee. Do you not agree?”

“No, sir. I do not agree at all,” she hissed. “Your habit is terrible and a danger to your fellow racers. Whereas my love life is a natural but private part of me.”

“Private?” he echoed, searching her eyes merrily. The argument seemed to further restore vitality to him, his headache wearing away entirely. “You told me so easily what you are.”

“Because you were baiting me, and we were alone!” she hissed, poking his chest. Like this, she could smell the cigarettes and whiskey upon him. She did not dare to think how his chest was hard but pliable beneath her finger, or the warmth that emanated from him through her. She quickly recoiled away and shoved her hand into her robe pocket. “This is different!”

His thin lips stretched into a handsome smile, and it made his dark face gleam, the sunlight from the windows catching his hair. In that moment, he appeared as a fallen angel, his golden earring glimmering from the sun. “You made the decision to tell me, princess.”  

“And _you_ are an impossible man,” she declared, eyes hard. Her fingers dug into the soft cloth of her robe awkwardly. “I would think with an IQ of 178, you’d know what sort of trouble comes along with drinking early in the morning.”  

His thin lips twitched as he considered her. “You know my IQ?”

Allura flushed and tried to wave it off. “An engineer on my team was talking, and—never mind. You are avoiding my question.”

The handsome man fell silent for a time and then dared to lean forward a bit more, as if to reveal a great secret. “To answer that question, princess,” he murmured to her, voice sultry, “I would have to further devalue your opinion of me.”

“…I already think you’re an alcoholic, if that helps,” she deadpanned.

His eyes searched hers. “It is only one shot,” he argued lightly. “It delays the metabolic processes associated with an increasing hangover.”

Her white brows flew up in disbelief. “So you set yourself up for an even _worse_ one later?”

Lotor grinned at her cheekily, narrowing his eyes playfully. “Only if I do not drink some electrolytes,” he mused merrily. “Which I will, love. I promise.”

“It’s a terrible habit and makes you a danger on the track.”

“I do not ride for another seven hours,” he assured her. “Plenty of time to work off a shot. But I find your concern endearing.” His beautiful voice softened. “I will not drink so early if it bothers you.”

Allura paused at that, her eyes widening.  

It left them silent in realization as they searched the eyes of the other.

“Oh,” she said, voice uneasy. “Well…that’s, uh, that’s good.” She swallowed hard at the thought that Lotor Dalir was paying attention. She’d expected further disagreement.

Whether he was simply lying for her sake was another story.

Then his beautiful voice turned with something playful. “But since you take such personal interest in me, I will ask a question as well.” His head tilted with an innocent curiosity. “Why is it that the great Miss Singh has not yet lost her virginity to enjoy the pleasures of sex? Surely at least one man has met your standards?”

She gave him a warning glare. Then she retorted softly, knowing he had not truly answered her question about the alcohol—“ _There is nothing I cannot do_ —” and so would not receive a full answer either, “I, sir, still have my virginity because I don’t lose anything.”

Lotor blinked as he considered her words. Then a noise like a moan escaped him, his eyes darkening with lust. “Oh, princess.” He raised his hand to his chest and inhaled. Instead of being turned off, as she would have thought, he looked more enamored with her than ever. “Those enchanting lips and that silver tongue of yours are _divine_. They speak poetry.”

Allura’s face flushed as she backed away and crossed her arms once more, trying to look more intimidating than she was in her pink, cartoon-unicorn pajamas. “That was hardly poetry,” she snapped, suddenly uncomfortable that he saw even her quips as attractive. “And I am not at all divine.”

He huffed, absolutely delighted by the existence of such an innocent spitfire. He leaned forward again, his lust-filled eyes searching her. “I must disagree,” he teased hotly, his voice a sultry murmur. “I never met a mortal heart that beat so steadily as your own. You are a competitive racer to your core, to be so unyielding. Surely, there is some imperfection in you that keeps you tied to this mortal plane.”   

Her flush began to work its way up to the tips of her ears. Unlike the carefree flirting she and Lance so often engaged in for fun and giggles, Lotor’s words carried a deep weight, his connotations bordering on the blasphemous. It made her spine tingle. “I have many imperfections. But none of them are your business.”

Lotor murmured playfully, “I will show you mine, if you show me yours.”

His raw sexuality left her speechless, searching his eyes as she sputtered. “W-well, I’d rather not—” And then of all things, her stomach grumbled loudly with hunger pains, and her eyes widened in embarrassment as she tightened her arms around herself. “—Oh. Oh, dear.”

A genuine, beautiful chuckle escaped him, lighting up the whole of his being as he sat back, appraising her. “Ah, a mortal weakness in you at last.” He gingerly swung back on his bar stool, mindful of the remains of his headache. Then he tapped his hand on the counter. “Morvok!” he called out, his beautiful voice a smooth, strong bell.

And from out of the connecting kitchen, one stout, rotund man appeared. “Yes, Mr. Dalir?”

He tilted his chin toward Allura. “The princess is hungry and would like a big breakfast for her important day. Make whatever she desires, and place the bill on my tab.”

“Yes, sir.”

Allura’s eyes widened in surprise. “Oh, no—I couldn’t.” She felt suddenly nervous as she stared at Lotor. “Really, I can pay for my own.”

“I am quite certain of that, princess,” Lotor said in a huff of amusement, his thin lips stretching. His accented voice lilted in merriment. “That is not why I should like to pay.”

She looked at him skittishly. “If you’re wanting something from me, then—”

“—I am honoring my debt to you,” he said airily, waving off her fears. “I offered you prime rib yesterday, only to discover you do not eat cow. How shameful I was, to suggest something abhorrent to your culture. I have been hoping to make it up to you.”

“But that’s really not necessary.”

He pulled a large bill from his pocket and slapped it onto the counter as a tip for Morvok. “If my offer is so disconcerting, princess,” he said, quirking a brow, “then you can always repay me with a lassi from your tent.”

She sputtered for a time, still overwhelmed by the rush of emotions that came along with the presence of Lotor Dalir. Everything about him moved so fast, it was hard to keep up.

He was asking to see her again.             

(Did she want to say yes?)

At the sight of her hesitation, Lotor said lightly in amusement, “…Of course, it was only a suggestion. You can say no if you would like, love.”

Allura’s eyes widened as she stared at him in surprise. “What?”

He pouted up at her despite his merriment. “You look like a rabbit caught in a trap.”

Her face flushed again. “I simply do not like to be in anyone’s debt, sir, and I feel you have somehow twisted my arm to be so.”

Lotor tilted his head, then he waved his hand airily. “Forget the lassi, then. I would not have you injure your sense of honor over it.”

And so Allura fell silent, staring critically at him with a raised brow, surprised at how easily he backed down at her discomfort. Lotor Dalir was a decadent and impulsive man, with a fairly wicked mind. Allura had difficulty judging his sincerity in any given moment because of it, unsure of whether she had wrongly accused him of ill intent once more.

But surely, the man did not truly wish to prey on her. He talked seduction, likely out of habit, but his abrupt, half-drunken departure from the hot tub last night suggested he was merely toying with her. Lotor Dalir’s insatiable desire for physical pleasure could not be met by a virgin, who did not know the dark and dirty things he likely wanted from women, judging by the hickeys and scratches upon his body—

And here she was, speaking to _the son of Zarkon Dalir_ —knowing that Lotor had insider intelligence as to her greatest competition.

Her lips pursed.

“Well,” she said hesitantly, “I suppose you _did_ ask very nicely for the lassi, the other day. Even if your manners are…atrociously forward.” 

The man smiled handsomely, flashing his white teeth.

She raised her finger. “But in exchange,” she said, her eyes glinting with warning, “I want that information you promised me, about your father’s racing style, his habits, and anything else you can give me.”  

He carded his hand through his hair and then stood, his gold earring swaying with the action. “Your wish is my command, princess,” he murmured, voice sultry. “When and where shall we engage in this exchange? I would offer you my tent, but perhaps you prefer a more…neutral location.”

Allura craned her neck as he stood, his lithe form towering over her. Like this, he was an all-encompassing shadow, the sunrise haloing his outline into something unearthly—like a terribly handsome djinn.

The sight made her heart skip.

She almost forgot he had spoken.

“How about,” she stuttered, her face reddening further as she stared at him. “Um, I meet you by the funnel cake stand? After my first run today, because I need to do tests with _Blue_ beforehand.”  

Lotor’s smile brightened further. “Very well, then, princess.” He pressed his lips together, appearing as if he wished to speak of something else. But then he decided against it, and he murmured, “Be sure your harness does not twist on you this time.”

The genuine softness in his voice inspired a new sort of heat within her. It was not a flush of embarrassment or righteous indignancy, but a warmth that Lotor would even remember her bruises from the previous day. She furrowed her brows and asked, “Are you mother-henning me, sir?”

His gaze softened. And then he turned away from her, flinging his hair over his shoulder. “Of course, love,” he said whimsically. “After this morning, it is only fair.”

* * *

 

Soon enough, Allura found herself sitting alone in comfortable silence, her feet swinging freely from the bar stool. She munched thoughtfully on her plateful of _besan ka cheela_ , savoring the taste of the herbs in the pancake-like dish.

_“Be sure your harness does not twist on you this time.”_

Lotor Dalir’s velvet voice echoed in her mind, leaving her with a tingle down to her toes. She tried to ignore it and the increasing pace of her heart when thinking of their upcoming meeting at the funnel cake stand.

She supposed she was toying with danger, in a way, to entertain further interactions with such a decadent man—

“—What,” suddenly came the cry of a familiar, female voice, “did you _do_?”

Allura flinched, freezing mid-bite as her eyes widened.

“Allura Singh,” called out the near-hysteric Romelle, rushing from one of the hallways toward the bistro. “We need to have a group huddle, right this minute!”

 _Oh no_ , the racer thought. It was then that she realized her cousin was not alone. There was the sound of a second pair of footsteps.

Allura turned around hesitantly to see Coran running forward as well, holding an open newspaper in his hands and reading with shock as he narrowly avoided running himself into a wall.

“What,” the woman asked hesitantly, “is the occasion for all this—?”

Romelle slammed a second newspaper down on the counter, eyes wide in panic and—disbelief. “Maybe you can tell me,” she hissed in fright. “As your logistics manager and public relations contact, I need to know when you’re going to pull a stunt like this.”

Allura blinked. “Stunt?” she repeated. “What stunt? I don’t—”

“—Just read it,” the other woman said, pushing the folded newspaper over to her and taking a seat beside her. She ran a frazzled hand through her long, free hair, not yet pulled back into pigtails. Then she grabbed onto Allura’s water glass and took a sip, setting it down in pain. “Oh, I think today’s an espresso day, I think it is. With chocolate. And whipped cream.” She whined. “And a cinnamon roll.”

Coran took a seat on the other side of Romelle, setting down his copy. His handsome face carried stress lines Allura had never seen before, his mustache unkempt and Hawaiian shirt buttoned unevenly. He looked up at Allura as if he did not know her, eyes tense. “Princess, is this true?” he begged her. “I thought we didn’t keep secrets from each other. I thought I _knew who you were_.”  

Allura’s voice raised as she hesitantly grabbed onto the newspaper and began to unfold it. “What on earth has gotten into you two? I’ve not done anyth—”

Her voice trailed off as she stared at the newspaper headline.

 _Secret Affair Revealed!_ it read.

“Tell me this isn’t true,” Romelle begged. “Like, in any way.”

Allura’s eyes scanned quickly as she muttered the words to herself. Her voice tightened with increasing apprehension. “A shocking event occurred behind the drag racing starting lines just before qualifications, calling into question everything we thought we knew about the famed racing families, the Singhs and the Dalirs. Assumptions were that these families severed ties after the mysterious and violent death of Alfor Singh—but evidence suggests a _secret love affair_ has been brewing between Allura Singh and Lotor Dalir for some time?”

She looked up.

Coran held his cheek in his hand, his eyes narrowed at her searchingly.

“Keep reading it,” Romelle demanded in panic. “It gets worse.”

With a chill down her spine, Allura continued, gripping the newspaper tighter. “In what appears to be a love-hate relationship, Singh threw a can at Dalir’s head before the races, only for the two to later express cozy sentiments by the fences after Singh completed her qualification run. The pattern repeated later in the day, where sources caught Singh confronting Dalir in an argument (topic unknown), and then the two parting ways in a teasing manner. Lance McClain was not available for comment regarding Singh’s affair with Dalir, but sources suggest that he was unaware of Singh cheating on him.”

Allura slammed the newspaper down. “This is ridiculous!” she cried out, eyes wide. “I’ve never—I never _met_ the man before yesterday! How did they determine this drivel from just a few interactions?” Her voice grew hysterical. “And I’m not cheating on Lance. I’m not even dating him!” She flailed her hands. “You sort of have to be _dating first_ to cheat.”

“Well, you certainly gave them content to work with.” Romelle’s pink lips were pressed tightly together as she poked hard at the image of Lotor leaning against the fence, pinning Allura between himself and the wiring, murmuring to her in a soft way as she stared up at him, her lips damnably opened a fraction, as if mesmerized by him. Their faces were only inches apart.

“That—that’s not what happened,” Allura stuttered. “He was coming onto me, and I was trying to tell him to leave.”

“Oh, yes,” Romelle deadpanned. “I can tell you were trying so hard to make him go away.”

Allura glared at her. “It’s just the angle of the photo!”

Coran hummed and narrowed his eyes, then turned his head to the side to stare at his copy of the newspaper. He turned it the other way and then even flipped the newspaper upside down. He scratched his chin in worry. “You look like you two were about to eat each other, no matter which way I look at it.” He began to grow a bit green and flipped the newspaper. “Oh, I can’t look at it anymore.”

Allura’s voice raised in panic as she glared at her cousin. “I wouldn’t have even talked to Dalir again if you hadn’t fed me that terribly untrue story about him forcing a fan to give him a blowjob.”

Romelle hissed at her, her purple eyes wide, “I was just trying to warn you that he’s dangerous! Maybe I mixed up a few details, but I was right overall! It’s been less than a day, and he’s already shredded your reputation! Do you know instead of questions about your racing history, I woke up to voicemails from various media outlets asking to what extent I can confirm if you’ve been cheating on Lance, and for how long?” She cried. “I haven’t even checked social media. I’m afraid to.”

Allura stared at her, eye twitching. “I’m not cheating on Lance,” she said again, “because I’m not dating him, for one.” She raised her finger. “And for the last time, I’m not in any way involved with Lotor Dalir.”

And then a streak of guilt shot through her, and she hesitantly added, lowering her hands into the comforting folds of her robe, “Although I was planning to ask him about his father’s racing technique.”

Her cousin’s eyes widened. “Oh, don’t do that. The media is going to watch you like a hawk, if they weren’t already.” Her voice raised into a panicked whisper. “I can’t tell media you’re not involved with him if you’re going around and rendezvousing with him.”

Allura huffed, indignant. “It is not a rendezvous, it’s an investment in the ongoing success of this team. Zarkon was anticipating us. We have to anticipate him too, and that means—” Her voice trailed off again. “And that means…”

Cold water stormed through her. Then she began to fan herself, feeling faint. “Oh, dear,” she breathed, groaning. A new panic overcame her. “ _Zarkon_. I was going to reach out to Zarkon today, to try and repair some of the bad blood.” Her breath hitched. “But what in the world do I say now? ‘Hi, you might recognize me as the daughter of the man everyone accused you of killing, but I do not believe that happened. And by the way, no, I’m not sleeping with your son like everyone says?’”

Coran snapped his fingers. “That does have a memorable ring to it.”

“It’s terrible,” she cried. “At this rate, I’ll never be able to show my face to him. He’ll think I’m a sleaze just trying to get into his good graces for…for his son’s sake.”

“Why would you even want to talk with him at all?” Romelle said, her thin brows furrowing together. “The only good thing about Zarkon is his sponsorship with the Feline Rescue Foundation.”

Coran’s voice turned in a tired humor. “Ah, yes. That was his wife’s doing, I believe.”

Allura remained silent for a time, biting her lip. Her face was still flushed in panic, her mind racing. “This is not at all how I imagined today going,” she whispered.

“Well,” Romelle said, pulling out her phone, “I know a way to shut this down.” Her sweet voice grew petulant. “All we have to do is accuse Lotor Dalir of harassing you, and that’ll—”

“—No,” Allura cut in, eyes wide. Her full lips dropped open. “We can’t possibly do that!”

“And why not?” she demanded. “You said he was coming onto you, and you were trying to tell him to leave.”

It felt strange, to suddenly hold power over the reputation of Lotor Dalir.

“ _I would not have my reputation muddled in this way_ ,” his words from yesterday haunted her, along with the disturbed concern on his face. “ _I am a man of honor_.”

It was even stranger that Lotor, just that morning, had said nothing about the papers—or such a wild scandal—before leaving her, carefree and decadent as always.

She swallowed hard. “It’s—it’s not that simple, Romelle. He backed down and has been…kind since. What do his accounts say? How has he responded?”

Romelle gave her a pained look, scrolling through what appeared to be Lotor Dalir’s official social account. “No response yet. But that doesn’t mean he won’t have one. And I bet that sleaze will play it up too just for the attention.” She looked at Allura in fear, her blond brows knitting together in guilt. “Look, I know you got on my case yesterday about the fangirl blow-job misunderstanding. But I still wouldn’t trust this guy. Especially not with your reputation. We have to make the first move to shut down these rumors, before they get even more out of control.”

* * *

 

Back at the drag strip pits, a beautiful woman with multicolored hair tilted up her head, her long, high ponytail shifting about her shoulders. “Lotor!” she called, her voice a sweet, carefree sound. She waved him over, her cropped _Sincline Racing_ shirt lifting up to reveal a smooth, toned belly. “You’re here early! And you look like crap!” She waggled her sculpted brows, her full lips stretching wide in a mischievous way. “Too much fun last night with my friend from the bar?”

He gave her a dark look as he entered the _Sincline Racing_ VIP tent and moved past her. “No, darling. That was the previous night.” He set down his duffel bag gently upon a nearby table. Out popped the curious head of Kova, and Lotor lifted the cat from the bag to lovingly set him free. “And possibly later tonight as well.”

Kova jumped down from the table, landing quickly on his feet to go hunt around the grounds and stretch out in the sun.

The woman followed Lotor to lean her hands on the table and eye him. “Then who did you bang last night, huh?” She leaned in excitedly. “Was it the princess from Team Voltron? Please tell me it was her.”  

“No, Ezor.” His thin lips pulled in an odd line. “It seems Miss Singh is far too pure to be trifled with.” His brow crinkled. “And I’ve a terrible headache from wine, to a point where I had to take a taxi here. Please stop asking questions.”

The lithe woman pouted, kicking up a leg to lean one designer tennis shoe against the trailer side. She crossed her arms. “Uh, no? I wanna know more about this new girl. Media hasn’t really tried to follow your love life since the first time you and Merla hooked up.” Her voice lowered conspiratorially. “That means this is _serious_.”

Lotor did not quite catch the underlying insinuation about media. “Hush, darling.” All his charisma with Allura puttered out as he pulled off his outer motor jacket, leaving him once more in his white tank top, his face twisting uncomfortably with the sweat already collecting upon his brow and behind his neck. He pinched the bridge of his aristocratic nose as he tossed his jacket onto a nearby table. “It is far too hot and too early for such conversation.”

On the far side of the VIP tent, Acxa sat with her black boots up on a table, her dark purple hair swaying in the air-conditioning fan. “Lotor,” she called.

He looked up.

She raised a bottle with green liquid in it and tossed it to him. “For your headache.”

He caught it easily enough. “Thank you, Acxa,” he called, sliding his eyes in a pout to Ezor. “At least _you_ genuinely care that my hangover is returning with a vengeance.”

“That’s not for your hangover. It’s for the headache you’re about to have.”

Lotor paused, not quite catching her meaning. “What was that, love?” He twisted off the cap and took a sip of the electrolyte drink.

She suddenly turned her newspaper around and showed him the headline.

_Secret Affair Revealed!_

Lotor suddenly forgot to swallow as he stared at the image of himself and one Miss Allura Singh. He froze there, cheeks puffed with the drink for a time before Ezor came up behind him and poked his face. It was all he could do to avoid spitting it out on Acxa, who had jerked away, eyes wide, while Ezor giggled.

At that time, a new voice echoed into the tent. “Oh, are you showing him the headlines? Great.” It was Zethrid, appearing from out of the semitrailer with a case of tools. “Now we won’t be able to fit his head through a doorway.”

The man was ignoring her as he stared at the newspaper, swallowing back the drink. And then as his shock wore away, an awful, wicked smirk stretched slowly across his lips, giving him a mischievous air. “Zethrid,” he called to her. “Zethrid darling, did you read this? It says right here that I am having an affair with the princess.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Her muscles flexed as she roughly set down the tool case onto a nearby table. “We all know it’s a lie.”

He turned to her, his eyes glinting in a mix of amusement and curiosity. “But the masses do not. Tell me, has Miss Singh publicly responded to these allegations?”  

Ezor was staring down at her phone, searching for Allura Singh’s social media accounts. “Nothing yet,” she called with a curious hum. “Her last post was from yesterday morning. Which tells me she’s either not seen this yet, or she has and is still trying to figure out what to say.” Ezor began to flip through Allura’s timeline, cooing. “Oh, she’s so cute.”

Lotor’s lip stretched before he said, “She will certainly not agree with the papers when she does respond.” He set his green drink down, then pulled out his sleek, dark phone from his back pocket and hummed as he opened up his own social media account. His voice grew distant in thought. “But perhaps I might influence her perception of me.”

Acxa’s eyes snapped to him, her brows angling downward. “In what way?”

His fingers moved in a smooth rhythm as he typed out his latest update. “You shall see soon.” Ezor peeked around his shoulder and stood on her tip-toes, watching him type, her eyes narrowed.

“As your social media consultant,” Ezor declared, “I need to approve everything you post to your main account. Lemme see.”

He made a noise of amusement and turned the screen toward her. “Is this acceptable, love?”

The woman hummed, tilting her head. Then she wound a lock of hair around her finger as she considered the post before she nodded. “Yes, but it won’t make her _like you_ like you.”

With her approval, he posted the message and tossed the phone aside onto his jacket had removed, leaning over to search for his lighter and cigarettes in the jacket pocket. “That does not particularly matter, given her circumstances.”

Ezor waggled her dark, sculpted brows. “Oh, I hear it in your voice. You’re _jelly_ ,” she teased.

Lotor’s face twisted in confusion as he slipped a cigarette between his lips and lit it. “… _Jelly_?”

She poked him in his side and giggled when he jerked and glared at her. “You know, jealous. I’ve read the magazines. I guess this McClain guy really has the hots for her? And he’s totally gonna propose soon? That’s what you mean, right?”

Lotor inhaled hard on his cigarette, lighting its end a bright red as he closed his eyes, his eyebrows knitting. When he breathed out, a great cloud of smoke slipped from him. Just because Allura was a virgin, he thought wryly, did not mean she was not in a relationship. It would perhaps explain how easily offended she was by him and how tentative she was even to chat. “I was speaking,” he said tiredly, “of her irritation with me.”

Ezor leaned in, her sweet voice darkening. “What I’m saying is, if you’re gonna make your move, you better do it before that guy puts a ring on it.”

He gave her a dry look. “Ezor, darling, she made it quite clear that she is not interested.” He neglected to speak of the meeting he had planned with Allura, knowing that Ezor was terribly nosy about such things.

The woman’s high ponytail slipped over her shoulder as she tilted her head, thin brows knitting together. She raised up her phone, which contained the online version of the newspaper with the fairly incriminating image of him attempting to seduce Allura Singh by the fences. “Say whatever you want, but that’s some serious chemistry.”

His brow twitched at the sudden reminder. And suddenly, all the joy in him began to slip away into a tension lines, his thin lips pressing together. “Ezor, please, do not speak to me of chemistry. For more reasons than one.”

Zethrid looked up, her eyes narrowing. “Why, did you talk to your mom today?”

“No.” His voice roughened as he inhaled on his cigarette again and breathed out a sigh. “I called and was able to speak with only her doctor. She is not well this morning.”

And then a silence overcame the tent.

Ezor bit her lip, looking a bit sheepish at having made Lotor recall his mother, who had once been a rising star in the field of chemistry and quantum physics. “Is, um, is she going to be okay?”

The handsome man turned away, his voice even in a false merriment, “It is the same old condition, love. She will return to us eventually, as she always does.” He then inhaled on his cigarette again, closing his eyes. “I just…do not want to think on it right now.”

And then he fell silent as well. Lotor focused on the feeling of the sun’s heat against his face, and the gentle hum of the air conditioning, and the rumbling clinks as Zethrid set out his tools to prep his bike for another race. He could smell the sweet scent of fried dough in the air—the vendors all preparing for the mass crowds that would soon arrive at the gates.

On the ground, Kova had slunk back to the tent—Lotor could hear Kova’s meowing as he sought after Ezor for some affection.

And then his Lotor’s twitched, and he pulled the cigarette away from his mouth to jauntily spin it between his fingers, flicking ashes onto the floor. “Do you know, my headache is actually quite better since I drank that terrible green drink. Acxa, what on earth is in this magical potion?”

“…You probably don’t want to know,” she deadpanned. But her voice had softened.

Zethrid huffed and grabbed the drink from the table, her gold eyes narrowing in on the scripted text. “Let’s see. It’s purified water, spinach puree, asparagus puree and spirulina—”

Lotor made a gagging noise. “Zethrid,” he called. “Zethrid, love, Stop. I regret asking.”

Her eyes glinted as she ignored him. “—ginger root….algae? Who the fuck puts algae in a drink?”

That did it.

He dropped his cigarette into a nearby ash tray, looking green.

“—Uh, some broccoli and bean sprouts—like, damn, this has gotta be the most vegetables you’ve ever eaten—”

“—you mean, drank,” Ezor offered helpfully.

“Both,” Zethrid huffed in amusement. “Definitely both.” She smiled, looking a bit predatory as she held up the drink to Lotor. “Oh, and a billion strains of some bacteria with a long name.”

His blue eyes narrowed to slits, then flickered to Acxa. “Is this, in fact, an attempt to poison me?”

The woman sighed. “…It’s called health food, Lotor. You should try it more often.”

Lotor’s handsome face twisted, and then he turned away to the other side of the tent, where Zethrid had previously unlocked and pulled out his Sincline bike from the semitrailer. But the expression of displeasure upon his face gave way secretly to merriment and a fond contentment as he slipped away. “What friends you all are,” he called back to them petulantly. “Feeding me health food. It is simply unforgivable.”

“Your face is unforgivable,” Zethrid retorted back.

“Yes, love,” he called with a merry laugh. “An _unforgivably delectable sin_ , I believe the papers said.”

“…You’re never gonna forget that, are you.”

“Absolutely not.” And there, in the center of his open workstation, he ran his fingers along the spine of his Sincline bike, feeling the hot metal from the sun. His index finger ran over the sponsorship decals and then a small engraving in the metal, containing the words _In Memory of Narti_ and a span of dates. “Good morning, love,” he murmured to the bike softly.

Then he gripped the handle. He swung his long leg over the seat and sat down with a soft exhale, as if breathing out in relief. He shifted a bit, closing his eyes as the tension melted away in his face. “Not to worry, I will rub out all the nasty fingerprints from Zethrid manhandling you. Yes, I will.”

Ezor appeared alongside the side opening of the tent and tilted her head. “On second thought, yeah, the media must be wrong. There’s no way Allura Singh would go for you.”

Lotor snapped open one blue eye to glare at her.

The woman giggled and raised a knowing brow. “What woman wants to compete with a motorcycle?” And then she lifted up Kova and nuzzled her cheek into his soft fur. “The only good thing about you is Kova.”

The sleek cat meowed and began to purr in delight, while Lotor face-faulted. “You wound me,” he said. He waved a hand at his face, then at his waist. “There is plenty good.”

Ezor’s smile stretched wide. “I don’t know. You can’t compete with soft fur and the way Kova likes to cuddle.”  

Kova closed his bright eyes, body still rumbling happily with affection as the woman gently scratched behind his ears.

“On the contrary,” Lotor huffed, raising his sharp chin and brow, “I know how to make _other things_ purr. And not just engines, love.” Then he turned on the bike, staring at her with a merry glint in his eye as revved up the bike, testing the new lubrication he had added last night. He closed his eyes as he revved the engine again, the force of the exhaust from the pipes behind his back raising up his hair in a soft arc. His voice broke in a delighted moan. “Yes. Talk to me.”

The bike’s high-whine engine snarled back at him. It inspired his thin lips to stretch wide, his eyes still closed. He could hear the perfection in it—could feel it in the smooth mechanical rumble. This was his design, perfectly alive and—

He felt a short rap on his knee.

He opened one eye to see Ezor staring at him unimpressed, with Kova still in her arms. “You could still learn a lot from a cat,” she said.

At that, Lotor shut down the bike, his test complete. He gave her a look as he settled his wrist on the bar. “And what lessons are—”

But then he cut himself off. His blue eyes hardened as his back stiffened. “What the—?” Slowly, very slowly, he looked down at the inner bar of the bike, where he had set his wrist. He rubbed his wrist back and forth over the metal.

And then he suddenly stood up in a flurry. “Zethrid!” he called, his voice raising in dissatisfaction. “Zethrid. This scratch here in the paint, on the handlebar. Where did this come from?”

Her gruff voice echoed from the other side of the tent. “Hell if I know. It’s been there since yesterday.”

His brows angled hard. “Love, I rely upon you to handle my bike with care.” He waved his hand shortly at the scratch. “And this is not handling it with care.”

Ezor sang out, “I told you he’d notice.”

Zethrid’s lip pulled back in a snarl as she popped her head over the side of the tent. “Oh, don’t get your panties in a twist over it. it’s just a scratch—it’ll rub out.”

His thin lips pressed tightly together. “Rub out?” he repeated. He ran his long finger over the scratch. “Zethrid, this is _down to the metal_. I cannot rub that out.”

She shrugged. “Then just use permanent marker to hide it.”

His brow ticked, and his sharp jaw tightened. “You would have me sully my bike with permanent—?” He cut himself off in horror, running a stressed hand through his hair before waving at the bike again. “Darling. This is a delicate piece of machinery. The technological love of my life.”

Her eyes snapped to his. “If you like it so much, why don’t you marry it?”  

“Maybe I will,” he retorted protectively. He swung his leg off his bike, muttering under his breath, “This will not rub out.” And he pouted, switching to Farsi to complain about the scratch as he twisted his hair into a messy bun.   

* * *

 

Over the next several hours, Lotor made himself busy attempting to buff out and repaint over the scratch to perfection, and then officially prep the bike for his first run. The hot summer day grew even hotter as he worked. Lotor pulled up the hem of his shirt to wipe sweat away from his brow, revealing the tight, sculpted muscles of his torso. Then he pulled off his tank top entirely, hanging it over his dark shoulder to use as a towel, still muttering in Farsi under his breath.

His long fingers became stained with paint and black grease as he worked, the flyaways of his hair straggling down his cheek. While he worked, his cat Kova lounged on the seat of the bike, lazily swatting at his messy bun.

He was so focused that he hardly acknowledged the various fans and sponsors who crowded around his tent to watch him work, taking pictures and whispering to each other. The sound of street-bracket cars drag racing echoed across the fields above the murmurs.

Only Zethrid dared to interrupt him.

She strode in, carrying a tray of fruits to set out on the VIP buffet line. “Hey, it’s a quarter till noon. Your race starts in an hour fifteen. We need to start getting ready.”

It was then the man spat out the wrench in his mouth in surprise, staring up suddenly at Zethrid. His voice was rough. “What?”

“Your race starts—”

His black-greased hand planted hard against the work mat as he stood up. A few fans around the tent began to take more pictures of the infamous Lotor Dalir, dirty with his shirt off, glimmering in the sun. “—The dragsters will be on soon. I must—” he began to shake out his sweaty bun— “I must be there.”

“…You’ve never cared about your father’s bracket before.” Zethrid’s head tilted. “Care to tell me why now?”

“Perhaps when I have more time,” he said vaguely. The corner of his eye caught the various fans milling about, and he managed a signature smile and a wave to them, his eyes tense. “Tell me you can get the bike to the starting line without me. I may be a bit late between this and getting into my suit.”

He darted then for the door to the semitrailer, eyes intent on the sink.

Zethrid stepped in front of him, a bold brow raised. “Is this about the princess again?” she deadpanned.

Lotor side-stepped her. “It is more or less about my father,” he called back, slipping into the semitrailer and turning on the sink to wash his hands and face.

His crewmate made a noise of disbelief. “I thought you weren’t talking to him.”

But Lotor fell silent, ignoring her completely as he scrubbed at the grease and paint stains on his fingers and wrists. Then he splashed water over his face and grabbed a nearby towel, patting himself dry. He checked his side pocket for his cigarettes and lighter.

Zethrid’s voice trailed after him, gruff and almost concerned. “Is this something about your mom?”

He said nothing again. Instead, he grabbed a clean sleeveless shirt from the counter and began pulling it on as he disappeared into the sunlight and the waves of the crowd, many of whom dared to ask, “ _Is it true that you’re having an affair with Allura Singh?_ ”

“ _Is she really dating Lance McClain?_ ”

“ _Did you mean what you said in your post about Allura Singh?_ ”

“ _Oh my god, please have my babies!_ ”

“ _Hey man, you got an extra cigarette I could have?_ ”

* * *

                                                                                                         

Behind the starting line, the noon-time runners were preparing for their upcoming races, pulling up their top fuel dragsters into their respective lane. The grandstands swarmed with crowds awaiting the dragsters, many of them carrying burgers and hot dogs and funnel cakes to munch on.

“Quintessence!” cried out a nearby vendor, holding a small cooler. “Get your tasty quintessence drinks—two for six! Alcoholic or non! In grape, raspberry or blueberry!”

As it so happened, one crew chief named Coran was sipping a blueberry quintessence drink, his eyes wide as he slurped up the cool liquid. He pulled his lips off the straw with a solid pop, smacking his lips together. Then stars glimmered from his face. “I do say,” he declared brightly, “this is actually quite the tasty little drink. Not bad for being named after a fuel additive.”

Hunk looked up the back tire of _Blue Lion_. “Um, yeah. You know, that last bit you just said made me remember why I haven’t tried it, thanks.”  

“It’s actually very good!” Coran offered him his straw. “Here, taste it! It’s the non-alcoholic version, of course.” He laughed nervously. “I can’t be lounging on a beach playing a ukulele on a day like this.”

The younger boy narrowed his brown eyes at the bright blue drink and then made a hesitant face. “I don’t know, man. Kinda looks like you backwashed in it.”

Coran face-faulted. “Oh, come on. That’s just the mix part of the drink. See?” And he swirled the clear plastic before his eyes to mix it back up, only to start laughing nervously. “Hmm. Well, maybe you’re right. But not to worry! I’ll treat you all to non-alcoholic quintessence drinks and lunch after this first run. It’s the least I can do for all of your hard work.” He then turned to the woman stepping out of the truck. “Allura? Allura, would you want grape, raspberry, or blueberry?”

Allura Singh did not look up for a moment. She was instead still staring at her phone in a mix of surprise, her full lips dropped open a fraction.

From the other side of the team Voltron truck came Romelle, looking worried, her ponytails swinging behind her in the wind. “—some kind of ploy, probably,” she was saying, her sweet voice twisting uncomfortably. “He’s obviously trying to win favor in some way. And I wouldn’t put it past him to hold this over you. You should really be careful with a guy like this, Allura—”

Allura looked up, her blue and purple eyes searching Romelle’s. “He could have agreed with the papers and made everything worse,” she said softly. “But he didn’t. Romelle, _he didn’t._ And it’s actually…quite eloquent what he said.”

Romelle waved her hand. “He’s one of those smooth talkers. This is the kind of trick they pull to lure you into a false sense of security!”

“Oh, yes,” Allura said dryly. “I am so disheartened that he disagreed with the papers. How evil of him.”

And there, on the screen of Allura’s phone, was the main page of Lotor Dalir’s social media account:

-

 **_@officiallotordalir_ ** _– To **@olkarinews** , **@allurasingh** and I share an interest only in racing and a hope to move beyond past grievances between our families. I wish the Princess all the best in her endeavors. #dismantlingrumors #ialreadyhavethewife #andadatetonight #spreadrespect                                                         _

_-_

Romelle squinted at the screen again. “Who is the wife?” she asked, face twisting.

“His bike,” Allura deadpanned merrily before putting away her phone. “I suppose I should respond at some point, but I have more important things to worry about now. Romelle, being my social media guru, you can think of something good to say, can’t you?”

Her cousin whispered, “…He calls his _bike_ his wife?” Her thin, blond brows furrowed. She rubbed her forehead, confused. “But—what—?"

Up ahead in the line was Lance McClain, smiling for camera crews that surrounded the back fences. He waved like a perfect showman, occasionally blowing a kiss and open-heartedly flashing his signature pearly whites. He was backing away from _Red Lion_ in increments, trying to return to the main team.

Eventually, he turned to them, running a hand through his shining brown hair. “Hey guys,” he greeted. He looked over at Allura and gave her a mild, playful pout. “So I got this voicemail from Olkari News today that _my fiancé_ Allura’s cheating on me with the Lotion guy?”

She gave him a dry look. “It’s _Lotor_ ,” she clarified playfully. “And it’s rather difficult to cheat on you when you haven’t even proposed.”

Lance tsked at himself, raising his hands. “Yeah, I gotta work on that. I’m totally ruining the news’ timeline. Also, how dare you.” He sniffed, giving her doe eyes, voice breaking. “I thought what we had was special.”

Her full lips split into a merry smile, the stress in her slipping away with a giggle. “Oh, but it is, dear Lance.” And then she patted his head. “Very special indeed.”

He grumbled at her a bit, moving away to readjust the perfectly styled wisps of his short hair. But as he did so, he stared at her with a bit more genuine concern. “For real, is everything okay with you? It was like, six calls from different reporters.”  

Allura sighed. “Lotor shamed the papers online, so I believe these strange rumors will all die down soon. With any luck, they’ll focus on his new flavor of the week instead.”

The boy then nodded, relieved. “Good.” He paused. “And, uh—” He scooted up next to Coran and waggled his brows. “Did I hear someone say something about free drinks earlier? Coran, was that you?”

“As a matter of fact, I did,” Coran declared proudly.

Lance bit his lip, an impish glint in his eye. “ _Alcoholic_ drinks?”

The crew chief laughed. “Oh, not on your life. You’re still a wee one, you are.”

Lance pouted cutely, slouching over. “Oh, come on. We’re in another country. They don’t care at nineteen.”

“Yap yap,” Coran said, waving his hand. “Rules are rules, young man. Nonalcoholic drinks for us all when we’re together as a family. And then of course—” He arched an orange brow with a glint in his eye— “real drinks are for the adults later. When you’ve gone to beddy-bye to play your video games with Pidge and Hunk.”

The boy face-faulted, narrowing his eyes. “Hey, those are good games. You’d be addicted too if you played them.”

Pidge appeared from behind him, looking down at a tablet, running calculations. “So true,” she said, voice distracted. “Killbot Phantasm 1 will eat your soul, every time. Also, I vote blueberry quintessence. Red dye makes me break out in a rash.”

“Raspberry for me,” Hunk piped up. “And maybe some chocolate ice cream to go with it, because lemme tell you—” he wiped his forehead and readjusted his head tie— “it is hot out here.”

It was then that Allura realized she had missed Coran’s question entirely.

“Oh, sorry, Coran,” Allura said apologetically, looking sheepish. “I will not make it to lunch today. I fear I must be elsewhere. How about a rain check on that quintessence drink later tonight?”

The older man gave her a pouty lip. “Why would you leave us?”

She turned her gaze to the other lane, which contained various competitors, including Blades of Marmora, Galra Tech, Olkari United, Garrison, and the rising innovations group Rebel LLC. Her eyes landed upon a particular crew, and she bit her lip. “I need to scope out the competition,” she murmured. “And offer a handshake to one racer in particular.”

There, in Allura’s line of sight, was her true target at hand.

“I’ll be back,” she waved suddenly to her team.

The crew chief realized where she was going and called out, eyes wide, “Uh—Allura! I don’t think that’s such a good idea! Maybe we could talk about this first!”

But she ignored him and moved forward, raising her chin and steeling her nerves. She quickly tightened her bun and pushed back the flyaways of her white hair, then straightened the sleeves of her pink and white motor suit. She wanted to be presentable. She wanted to represent the Singh family.

Everyone looked at her in increasing curiosity as she walked over to the other lane, right into the heart of the Galra Tech dragsters.

Her own heart began to pound.

She felt her palms begin to grow sweaty at the sight of dark purple and the wings of Zarkon Dalir’s _Komar_ , resting silent as death, its sharp edges catching the light.

And then she saw him, surrounded by his crew, and she called out, her alto voice a sweet, unassuming sound on the air, “Zarkon Dalir? A moment of your time, please.”

The sun above passed behind clouds, inspiring goose-bumps over her body as the powerful figure turned to her, carrying in his large hands sharp, gauntleted racing gloves.

Zarkon Dalir was brutally tall, even a few inches taller than his son, and it hurt Allura’s neck to crane up at such an angle just to meet his eyes. He had a scar down the side of his face from an old crash when he had last driven _Black Lion_ for Team Voltron. It distorted the symmetry of his face and the line of his lip—he would have otherwise qualified as devastatingly handsome as his son. He had long bangs that fell across his forehead, his pepper hair gleaming with violet streaks.

He said nothing as he stared down at her.

Allura smiled painfully and stuck out her hand. “I’m sure you must remember me. I just wanted to say, good luck to you out there. And—and that I hope we can be friendly rivals.”

For a time, there was only a great silence as Allura held out her hand, waiting for him to respond.

The man’s dark gaze flickered to her small fingers, and then he turned away with a sniff.

Allura felt a dart of pain surge through her at the rejection. She swallowed hard and then lowered her hand. “Please,” she called again to him. “You and my father were great friends once. And truly, I do not understand what all happened back then, but I—”

She saw his long, fingers clench in their leather glove, and the words seemed to die in her throat. She stuttered in a diplomatic babble, “Well, I just want to make it right again. To put the past behind us and start anew as—”

“—As rivals,” he cut her off sharply.  Zarkon’s voice was a deep, gravel boom, lightly accented. He turned back around to eye her, the powerful muscles in his neck tightening with some kind of emotion. His scarred face carried a darkness in it. “For that is all we are. And you would do well to remember this.”

Allura suddenly felt that she had made an error. She stood before the _Komar,_ her full lips dropping open in search of words. “Well, of course,” she said, managing a weak smile. “Um, however, I was rather hoping to discuss—”

“—There is nothing to discuss, daughter of Alfor.” He paused. His eyes were piercing as he searched her, his face twisting in disinterest. “You will not win my title.”  

And his powerful figure turned away from her, and the sunlight returned to the skies above, leaving her with a new chill.

Her jaw dropped. His barely withheld disapproval—and how he so effortlessly brushed her off—ruffled her pride.  

Although she’d known Zarkon had slighted her family in interviews and newspaper statements—calling Alfor Singh’s legacy an embarrassment to the totality of the racing world—it felt more visceral, to stand before him and experience his prejudice, which extended down to her.

She felt it then—a true, dark rift between his blood and hers.

Something far beyond herself.

Her own fist clenched. “You are wrong about me, sir,” she called to him suddenly, before she could help herself. A great, frustrated passion rose in her, her eyes lighting with fire. “I’ll win this title on behalf of my father, who deserved the title the year he died, and then you’ll be forced to contend with me, in one way or another.”

Zarkon paused. He called back over his shoulder, his eyes darkening, “Is that a challenge, daughter of Alfor?”

“No,” Allura retorted, eyes hardening. “That is a _promise_.”

A huff shook the powerful figure. He turned back. His eyes—such a strange color of brown—seemed to glow almost red in the light. He leaned his metal-gauntleted hand against the side of _Komar_. “You are just like your father,” he said, his voice lifting in a mocking amusement. “You make promises you cannot keep.”  

She stood there gaping at him for a time, the whole of the Galra Tech team and several others watching the exchange tensely. She tried to search for words, her mind blanking in rage and confusion at how everything was so terribly wrong.

“Furthermore,” Zarkon said, angling a brow at her as he sniffed, pulling on his other glove. “Stay away from my son. I would not have him associate with you.”

Allura could not help herself. “What?” she said, voice raising, her face flushing an even deeper red in a mix of rage and embarrassment. “On what grounds, sir, do you even have the _right_ to make such a demand of—?”

His red eyes flickered up to her and narrowed. “—On the grounds,” he snapped, the dark amusement sinking into true irritation, “that your estate accused me of murder. Now leave me before you dishonor us both, daughter of Alfor.”

The young woman stood ram-rod straight in his powerful presence, hardening as a diamond under pressure. Her gloved fist clenched in want for a can to throw at his head too. “As I said before,” she retorted, “I do not understand what all happened between you and my father. But I find it dishonorable that you reject my offer of friendship so violently.”

By that point, cameras had honed in on them, snapping pictures.

Zarkon’s eyes turned to the distant cameras, and a growl worked its way up his muscled throat. “Leave now,” he demanded. “And stay away from me and my son.”

Then he turned away, grabbing his helmet from the hood of _Komar_ , eyes dark.

That did it.

She huffed, all of her diplomacy exhausted. “As if I would wish to associate with either of you, if this is how you respond!” she cried. “Your son is just as impossibly horrid as you are—a family trait perhaps.”

The man stiffened.

And then the princess stomped away, her lips in a tight line, her eyes set on the finish line.

Despite her words, she felt even more of a drive to meet with Lotor secretly and obtain all the information she could to defeat Zarkon at his own game.

 _No one_ told Allura Singh what to do.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, all. So much craziness has happened in my life, and I had to take time to recover, haha, but I hope this makes up for my long absence. Here is my holiday gift to you all! I’ll also try to let you know the status of future updates through [my tumblr here](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/the-lightning-strikes-again). So far, I haven't been deleted from the site, so I think I'll still use it as my main communication stream with you all, but I do have a backup Pillowfort account if needed. 
> 
> As some of you may recall, my esteemed colleague Gyodragon (Gyogyo) occasionally draws art for Adrenaline Rush. She recently drew [Allura Singh](http://gyodragon.tumblr.com/post/181160491541/the-lightning-strikes-again) and has just started up a patreon. [Please support her AR art on Patreon](https://www.patreon.com/Gyodragon) and her other platforms if you can! I’m very thankful for her work! 
> 
> Please let me know your thoughts, questions, and ideas in a review! Thank you!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the following awesome people for reviewing last time: dragonofyang, RogueSareth, Shorthairedme, Ysax64, dead_Juliet, PetulantPanda, Lady_Experiment, Yeah_Justsmile, vaf, Princess A, matereya, graciebuns, Gyogyo, Mythicamagic, HoneyToastie, Gia, teabeakay, ChemDeaf, and analyticamethyst. I really appreciate your support! 
> 
> Please forgive me for not doing individual reviews replies. Life’s been super crazy lately! Several of you asked about Zarkon’s past, what happened to Narti, and Lotor’s different languages that he speaks, and I’ll be expanding on those things in future chapters! 
> 
> Also, a quick reminder: The character named “Merla” is a direct pull from the 1984 Defender of the Universe (DotU) cartoon, with some Devil’s Due flourishes. Because AR has a lot of DotU references, I really wanted to include Merla. Known in that cartoon as the Queen of Darkness and Goddess of the Night, this complicated character had a major influence on DotU’s plot and on Lotor, Zarkon, and Allura. I’ve tried to adapt her as best as I could to the AR universe. I hope, whether you know DotU universe or not, that you find her addition in AR to be valuable. I’m really excited to write her! Please note additional warning tags in the story description.

The midday sun beat down hard upon Lotor Dalir’s brow as he pulled a cigarette from his lips, his blue eyes narrowing curiously upon the drag strip from his spot at the VIP fence. The Top Fuel dragsters were lining up in their lanes, with Team Voltron directly opposing Galra Tech.

He hooked his fingers into the wire mesh as he watched his father and Allura Singh argue with each other from the short distance away. Some strange mix of curiosity and dread flooded through him, but his handsome face remained unreadable, smoke slipping from his mouth with something close to a sigh and a groan of irritation.

From such a distance, Miss Singh appeared to be quite the tiny shadow against the hulking size of his father. Like a kitten hissing at an enraged bear.

“—Leave now,” Zarkon was snarling. “And stay away from me and my son.”

Lotor raised his cigarette back to his lips, angling a white brow.  

And then Allura Singh’s rich alto raised with a great passion. “As if I would wish to associate with either of you, if this is how you respond! Your son is just as impossibly horrid as you are—a family trait perhaps.”

Lotor’s fingers tightened upon the fence, and his eyes narrowed. He dragged on that cigarette hard, lighting its end a hot red in desperate want for the relaxing nicotine.

 _Oh_ , he thought, his entire being suddenly surging with a wave of heat. His eye twitched. He felt a spark of irritation not only against his father for goading Allura but also against little Miss Singh herself, for taking the bait and giving Zarkon exactly what he wanted.

 _A family trait perhaps,_ her snarl echoed in his mind.

He breathed out a great wisp of smoke in a seethe, his thin lips curling with a snarl of his own. He opened his eyes once more to watch the mysterious Allura Singh fairly stomp back to _Blue Lion_. “Your true opinion, hmm?” he murmured to himself. He tapped his fingers on the fence, angling his gaze hard on the sleek white and pink curves of her body. His calculating eyes roved up to her reddened face. “And here,” he pouted darkly, “I was thinking of sharing a funnel cake with you.”

The image that had so delighted him on his way over included licking her sugar-coated fingers slowly, as a demonstration of what he desired to do to the rest of her body. He’d imagined Miss Singh would gasp at the alien feeling of a man worshipping her with his tongue.

But now that image was collapsing down into him holding the funnel cake high above her head until he received a heartfelt apology from her. Her cute little face would flush red in embarrassment from jumping while he stood there, lips stretched in a vindictive smile.

Lotor’s brow ticked that, even in his great irritation with her, he found Miss Singh kissable.  

Perhaps he found her even more kissable then. He could think of several more beneficial ways to exact a keening, breathless apology from her behind closed doors, and as he stared her from the fences, watching her pull on her gloves and tuck her hair into her helmet, he dared to imagine her beneath him on a bed.

.

“ _I am still waiting, love_ ,” he would purr lightly in her ear.

Her passionate alto would break in desire from being on the perpetual edge of release, which he would not give to her. Her fingers would desperately scratch into him as she arched in need, her white hair a halo tangled by his hands. “ _Please—please, I am sorry_.”

His voice would slip with a teasing, dark pout. “ _Do you want a horrid and impossible man to fuck you?_ ”

She would be nearly incoherent with desire, her body trembling beneath his own and pretty cheeks flushed red. “ _Ngh, yes. Lotor, please_ —!”

. 

He blinked, breaking out of his daydream.

He would have to talk to Miss Singh about her insults. If they were going to work together to take down his father, they could not afford a falling out over bruised egos. But for as brightly as that spark of irritation against her had lit, another spark of conniving mischief sneaked into his thoughts—that father dearest would never suspect an alliance under such terms.

Allura Singh perhaps had just handed him the perfect cover.

As he mused, an unfamiliar male voice suddenly broke through his thoughts. “Mr. Dalir? Mr. Dalir! A moment of your time, please.”

Lotor turned his gaze, dragging upon his cigarette once more at the sight of a reporter. “Yes?” he responded mildly.

The reporter shoved a microphone in his face. “We’ve witnessed a major argument break out between your father and Allura Singh. Tell us, what’s your response to her accusation that you’re horrid and impossible?”

Lotor stared at the reporter’s intense face, raising a brow as he breathed out smoke. He lowered his cigarette, and his hand slipped from the fence. “I believe,” he retorted airily, his accented voice lifting, “Miss Singh might be right, that I am horrid in some way or another. But impossible?” He gave a light, calculated scoff as he waved his cigarette, tapping ashes onto the asphalt. “Most would say I am rather easy.”

“You’re not at all threatened by her insults?”

“Hardly.”  

“Will you still pursue reconciliation between her family and yours, per your post earlier today?”

He tilted his head, the wind fluttering his white hair back. “I suppose reconciliation is pointless if she does not truly wish for it, and if my father is so unwilling as well.” He motioned with a raised brow at the track. “Anger has a way of revealing one’s true desires. A pity, no doubt.”

“And about these rumors, regarding a secret love affair with Allura Singh. Although you rejected these allegations online, how has that rumor altered your relationship with on-again-off-again lover, Merla Falconieri?”

His handsome face split with a smile, but it was tense. He was growing tired of the questions. “Even if the rumors were true, I am certain it would change nothing between myself and Merla.”  

The reporter tried to press for more information. “And about you two—”

Lotor turned away, inhaling on his cigarette. Then he breathed out a puff of smoke in irritation and spoke over the reporter’s question. “—These races today are quite important. How about you stop asking me about my love life and focus upon the real action before you.”  

* * *

 

By noon, the day had grown even windier and hotter, resulting in a sluggish run for the first race between Blade of Marmora and Galra Tech. The crowds cheered but knew the speeds were not the limit of what the racers could achieve.

The second race was another maelstrom of smoke and fire and an earthquake throughout the grandstands. The windows on Lookout Tower shuddered hard. But the machines were still nearly a full second slower than the times achieved the previous day.

Lance McClain in his _Red Lion_ was third, racing against a Blade of Marmora crew. Daring to go faster, his tire slipped on his burnout. _Red_ nearly careened into a wall. It had been all Lance could do to get _Red_ back under control, swerving with the skid and scraping Red’s wing against the cement block, sending a wave of flames over the barrier.

The sound of the scrape reverberated like a shriek, the metal wing buckling on the edge.

Allura gasped from behind the starting line, her heart skipping a beat as she watched _Red Lion_ swerve. “Lance!” she cried out, eyes wide as she clasped her hands together. The crowds gasped along with her, several standing up—several others crying out in frightful disappointment that this would be the end of Lance McClain’s run.  

But as the dragster slowed to a stop from its unsteady burnout, Lance stiffly raised his hand in a thumbs up. He then motioned to the crowds, waving for their cheers as he forced _Red_ into reverse gear.

“And it looks like McClain is still going to race, folks,” announced a surprised Bob, with Bih-Boh-Bii translating as a soft echo behind him. “Given the state of his dragster, I’d say this is either brave or dumb—but I’ll let the track do all the talking on that. Loverboy Lance McClain, with a bent left wing, backing up to the staging light now. We’ll see what this kid can do when the pressure’s on. Meanwhile, our once Galra Tech and now Blade of Marmora’s Thace ‘The Lietuenant’ Volkov is at the staging light, ready to light his tires.”

The Blade member’s dark blue dragster glowed with purple lines—sleek and dangerous. The back tires suddenly warped with the power of a burnout, smoking the water upon the track. Sleek metal surged forward in a snarl and a flare of fire.

A plume of smoke billowed out as the dragster slowed to a stop, and a Blade crew member ran out to help guide Thace’s backup to the staging light.

“This is going to be a deciding race, ladies and gentlemen,” Bob said, anticipation rising in his voice again. “Thace Volkov cannot afford to lose this one. And if Loverboy loses, then he’ll drop down to at least fourth place in the standings. Here we go, ladies and gentlemen. They’re inching forward, both now in position, and—”

The massive torque and explosion of force drowned out the rest of Bob’s voice as the two dragsters lit with fire from their exhausts.

And then they shot off into the distance, surging like blurs of light in a shuddering roar of power—

The scoreboards flashed. “—And The Lieutenant takes the win! Loverboy Lance, unseated from third, now in danger of dropping even further with a gap of nearly two seconds in his score from his last run.” Bob’s voice grew with an amused admiration. “But you gotta hand it to the kid, he’s got heart to run with a broken wing and get that score. We’ll see if McClain can’t catch up at his next race tomorrow. Volkov now advances to fifth place with a solid time that will be hard to beat. While we work to clean up Loverboy Lance’s shrapnel from the track, please enjoy a message from our sponsors.”

* * *

 

Back behind the starting line, while crews cleaned up the asphalt, Coran and Pidge were tensely making last-minute calibrations to _Blue Lion_ ’s computer system, programming in the clutch engagement, the ignition timing, and the fuel and quintessence injection delivery. Allura sat in the cockpit, sweat trickling down her temples beneath her helmet as she pulled on heavy gloves. She inhaled deeply, listening to her team bicker about the perfect measurements before they agreed on a compromise, entering in numbers.

“You must be joking,” Allura called to them from behind her helmet, staring up in shock. “ _Blue_ can go much faster than that. You’re holding us back.”

Pidge readjusted her glasses, her noise-cancelling headphones slipping against her short hair. “Track temp is way over 100 degrees Fahrenheit. Add that to the wind and humidity, and it’s too slippery to get aggressive without the possibility of losing control, like what Lance did. Right now, this is less about breaking records and more about maintaining your position.”

Allura’s white brows furrowed. “If I maintain only my position, then I will continue to slide back in the standings. I must at least match Thace’s time.”

It was around then that the crowds raised up with cheers, startling them out of their debate. Along the side roads, Thace Volkov was returning with his dragster in tow, waving from the cockpit and freeing his wild hair from his helmet. He had a wide smile on his handsome face as he waved to his many fans, his blue motor suit gleaming with the BOM insignia.

Then came Lance, the injured _Red Lion_ being towed by Hunk. Fans from every team cheered him on in support of his damaged run. Lance still sat proudly on the top of the cockpit, his wave a bit shaky and stiff. He was cradling his right arm closely to his chest.

Pidge paused, and then her voice strained hard. “Guys. Lance is hurt. Do you see that?” She nearly dropped her tablet, her eyes widening. “He’s _hurt_.”

Coran gently laid a hand on her arm, eyes tense in concern. But he managed a weak smile. “It’s going to be okay, Number Five. He completed his run and is still making googly eyes at the crowd. Hunk will get him over to the med tent for a quick checkup.”  

The younger girl’s face flushed as she looked down at her tablet, and then at Allura. “No, we can’t allow that to happen again. Allura, I’m sorry, but we need to just hold our position. It’s not worth it.”

Allura worriedly roved over the distant Lance. She pressed her lips together and turned back to Pidge. “No. We have to keep pushing forward while the rest of the teams temper themselves. This could be our chance to overtake Zarkon’s position.” She resituated herself in her seat, pulling on her safety harness and locking it into place with a solid click.

“There’s risks with that,” Pidge warned.

The princess gave her a huff. “And Lance set a precedence for our upper limit. He was still able to cross that finish line.” Her eyes steeled with determination. “I want to match his numbers as closely as I can.”  

Pidge looked up to Coran.

The crew chief bit his lip, looking stressed. He readjusted his Team Voltron cap and then exhaled hard. “Well, Allura’s not wrong. We probably could chance a little more power. With Lance down, this might be our only chance to stay in the top three. But it’s up to you, princess.”

“I’ve already made my decision,” she said. “Let’s do this.”

The younger engineer hesitated for a moment, her eyes still watching as the Team Voltron truck stopped first by the medical tent. A few paramedics and camera crews swarmed around Lance, while he tried to wave them all off, daring to even wiggle his hurt arm to show it was not broken.

Pidge looked back down at her tablet, then reentered her calculations, increasing the quintessence fuel injection. “Okay. Fine. But this is the most I’ll go. I’m so not rebuilding two dragsters today.”

Allura watched on the computer screen inside the cockpit as the numbers reconfigured. She smiled prettily, patting the steering column. “Perfect. We can work with that, can’t we, _Blue_?”

The machine remained silent, the engine still not yet ignited.

The announcer’s voice came back over the airwaves. “Alright, everyone. Looks like we are back on track and ready to shred. Up next is another member of Team Voltron, currently in second place, the pretty in pink Princess, Allura Singh!”

A roar clamored over the grandstands—all the fans raising up to cheer her on.

Coran gave her a wave as the crew teams backed away into the burnout box. Another crew member stood back and held a hose to the track to wet her tires for a burnout.

She hesitated with her hand on the switches for a time.

“Blue, this is going to be a rough ride,” she whispered, eyes wide, heart pounding. “But it’s going to be worth it. We can do this. I know we can.”

And then she turned on the ignition.

 _Blue Lion_ roared to life with a turn of its V8 engine and sharp spurt of smoke from its exhaust pipes, its wings stretching out with a solid thrum. Allura felt her heart begin to pound in excitement at the sound, and she smiled broadly beneath her helmet.

 _Yes_ , the dragster seemed to call to her, snapping merrily. _Unleash me._

“And in Lane 1,” called Bob over the roar of the engines, “is Galra Tech’s Sendak Bahadur, an up-and-coming star, currently holding third place.”

Allura did not look at her opponent or listen to Bob’s voice. She closed her eyes, centering herself on her heartbeat. On _Blue_ ’s heartbeat. The thrum and the energy of the wild power around her.

Her fingers twitched, preparing to channel that energy.

And then she lit her tires.

She and Sendak both completed a burnout smoothly, with Pidge running before Allura’s dragster to help guide her back to the staging light.

Allura’s concentration heightened, her senses honing onto the staging light as she took her final position and Pidge moved out of the way. Everything—thoughts of her father, the maddening itch of a tag in one of her gloves, the memory of Zarkon’s sharp snarl, Lotor Dalir’s decadent voice murmuring in her ear—it all fell away into the backdrop of her mind, her whole body aligning itself to be as one with _Blue Lion._ To fly.

The crowd fell silent in anticipation.

 _Yellow_ , the staging light blinked.

The two snarling dragsters inched forward.

 _Yellow yellow_ , the staging light blinked.

And then _green_.

Allura hit the accelerator immediately, her vision tunneling forward as the force of _Blue_ ’s 10,000 horsepower slammed her back hard in her seat, the snarl of the engine pounding her eardrums. The g-force sent a thrill up her spine as the world surged around her in a sharp blur of sky, her eyes set on the finish line.

* * *

 

One Lotor Dalir was still leaning against the fences near the medical tent, smoking a second cigarette as he watched Allura Singh. The fire that shot from her _Blue Lion_ was nearly invisible in the noon light—pure as the earthquake rumble she created with her presence.

He felt her power in every cell of his body. His adrenaline soul moaned out a _yes, love, yes—_ inspiring a very real noise in the back of his throat, in delight of her insane power. To the uneducated crowds, her style likely appeared similar to all the other racers. But to him, with his trained eye, he could see how _Blue Lion_ flexed to action well before Sendak’s machine and shot true into the distance without a waver. 

The princess zoomed across the finish line, the scoreboard lighting up on her end, followed by Sendak. Bob’s voice echoed, “And the princess—!”

But as Allura deployed her chutes with the Voltron insignia, forcing a sharp deceleration, the full of _Blue Lion_ suddenly swerved. The five-thousand pounds of aero-downforce on its nose was not enough to compensate.

Her back right tire careened into the wall—and suddenly everything exploded into light.

Lotor flinched, nearly dropping his cigarette as he pulled it from his lips with a strong recoil, his blue eyes blowing wide.  

The entirety of the grandstands gasped along with him as fire billowed up from the far end of the drag strip, the awful sound of screeching, crunching metal shrieking up the heavens. Several cameramen along the cement barrier dived down to avoid the shrapnel as _Blue Lion_ flipped. Panels, rivets, and pipes sheared off at the force.

And then the sound of crunching metal died away as the fiery _Blue Lion_ slowed against the asphalt.

It left a trail of debris and fluids across the pristine dragstrip.

A noise escaped Lotor that was lost in the chaos of cries. Without thinking, he tossed his cigarette aside and raced forward to the edge of the cement wall, his white hair flicking back in the wind, his jaw dropped, oblivious to everything but the crash. “No,” he whispered in disbelief. His voice was rough from smoking and from his shock. “ _Impossible._ ”

The burning dragster’s wings shuttered onto the track as another boom rocked the frame with fire.

“Holy—” called Bob’s voice over the intercom, his voice trailing off.

Bih-Boh-Bii stopped translating as the ambulance and paramedics began to launch from their side road onto the track. They blared a loud, ear-piercing siren.

Deep fear gripped Lotor, at the thought of the indomitable Allura Singh—with her unicorn pajamas and flashing eyes and _all the potential in the universe_ —hanging dead in her dragster.

His dark fingers dug against the cement blocks as his breath hitched, a disbelieving cold gripping him. He could not quite fathom the burning image of _Blue Lion_ , which still cradled the body of Allura Singh within it.

All of his previous irritation with her unraveled into horror. On instinct, he envisioned attempting to pull her out himself, but he was too far down the raceway, the flames were too high, too hot without the proper equipment—

As the ambulance stormed down the drag strip, it seemed terribly slow. Reporters and fans alike surged forward for a better look, many of them shoving past the security guards to slip beyond the fence. Their shoes trampled the carefully designed sponsor insignias painted onto the grass, their hands grasping for debris from the wreckage of Allura Singh, perhaps to savor or to sell for incredible amounts of money.

Suddenly, even the cement barrier boasted waves of people, some standing atop the blocks to take pictures.

In doing so, they blocked Lotor’s vision of the _Blue Lion_.

But Lotor remained frozen, his eyes trained upon the black plume of smoke, his soul aging ten-thousand years with a disbelieving cry of _not again—not again—not again—_

He suddenly felt as if he were a boy, watching as his idol Alfor “The King” Singh exploded into light. Except this time, the scoreboard flashed on Singh’s side, the bulbs blinking with merry ignorance to celebrate the win.

A memory of Allura’s voice leeched icy fingers around his heart, clamping hard. “… _I don’t lose **anything**_ **.** ”

He inhaled shakily as he imagined the harness schematic in his hotel room. His debates over its final details and whether to risk her ire in asking for her breast size now felt pointless. Perhaps if he had been the one to fully modify her dragster, to build in additional safety backups to shut down the engine in a swerve—

He suddenly thought of that night in the hotel hot tub and the flush of shame upon her face at the bruises from her harness.

“Come on, love,” he begged, his voice—lost in the crowd’s cries—breaking with an odd pattern.

_Get out of there._

_Please._

* * *

 

Allura was slumped against her harness in the cockpit of her ruined dragster—struggling to catch her breath. Her eyes were wide as her mouth gasped open for air. She shakingly tried to unbuckle her safety restraint, but her adrenaline had exhausted itself, leaving her limp and weak. The smoke from the back end of _Blue Lion_ was beginning to choke her, the lack of oxygen seeping blackness into her brain.

She could feel the metal of her dragster screeching in pain.

“Ngh.” Her fingers weakly managed to unlatch the harness, feeling her body lean left toward the wall. She coughed, trying to blink.

“ _Allura_ ,” called a worried voice in her mind.

“ _Allura_.”

It was a memory of her father, pulling her hand back from a campfire. His voice was hard with fear. “ _No, no, honey. The fire will burn you. You must not let it touch you_.”

Her whole body had stiffened from the impact in a way she had never felt before, her mind jumbled. She shakingly reached out to the buckled console before her, the computer screen of _Blue Lion_ cracked and shorting out with fast blips of light.

Her hand found a roll cage bar, and she gripped onto it as tightly as she could, her fireproof gloves sizzling against the heat of the increasing fire behind her head.

“Ngh—” she gasped.

Allura squeezed her eyes shut, coughing beneath her helmet.

She managed to force her other hand onto the bar and then realized her neck was still strapped against the back of her chair. Weakly, she slumped back down, attempting to twist her hand to hit the release.

Another boom. She felt _Blue Lion_ shift harder to the left as a full axel came off with its wheel, bringing with it the smell of spilled nitromethane.

By now, a panic had risen within her. Self-preservation instinct overwhelmed her confusion.

She managed to hit the restraint’s release and then grabbed back onto the roll cage bar, forcing herself up in the midst of the billowing smoke. Her motor suit streaked hard with black as she heaved herself over the side in a daze, squinting to see the asphalt of the track against the bright of the fire.

“Ngh.” She dragged herself off the edge, allowing herself to tumble onto the track.

It was then that she could begin to hear the sound of Bob’s voice. She could feel tendrils of clean, cool air.

“—see the Princess. And oh my god, she’s okay.” There was a hysterically relieved laugh from Bob, and Bih-Boh-Bii began translating once more. “She’s getting up.”

Allura dragged herself forward, the flames of _Blue Lion_ arching over shoulders as she shakily stood, just in time for medics to appear. Strong arms grabbed onto her, gently pulling her away from the crash as others began to work on containing the fire.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” cried Bob, “the Princess might be down, but she’s not out. Look at this. Oh my god. The kid’s alive.”  

Medics helped her sit down in the nearby grass as they began taking her pulse, pulling off her helmet and offering her an oxygen mask. The roar of the crowd raised up in a cheer for her, some diehard fans collapsing from the overwhelming emotion.

In a daze, her squinting eyes stared out at the vast of the world, which was crying out her name and waving banners.

“Miss Singh,” one of the medics said to her. “We have a stretcher. We’re going to—”

“—I am fine,” she gasped for air, even as she coughed hoarsely. The adrenaline of her crash dulled the stiffness in her body and smoothed over the rattling of her mind. Quintessence fumes made her dizzy. Her hair had fallen from its bun when they’d pulled off her helmet, her white locks straggling down her sweaty face.

She managed a wave to the crowd as the medics shined a light in her eyes.

“No concussion,” one murmured.

Bob’s voice warbled in and out with the rage of the summer wind. “— _Blue Lion_ —shredded on the track, but—coming in to reestablish—first place.”

“ _Blue_?” Allura echoed, her wide eyes turning to the sight of her own wreck.

The dragster was now silent, charred dark from the flames and gray from the material of an industrial flame suppressant, its paint peeled back and metal warped. She hoarsely wheezed for air at the sight of _Blue_ , feeling a cold chill tear through her despite the heat of the sun and the memory of fire against her back.

She had been in that.

“—providing the team can rebuild _Blue Lion_ or a replacement by noon tomorrow—not have to forfeit her place—”

Allura turned to one of the medics, her mind slowly piecing her reality back together. Her voice was hoarse. “Did I make it?”

The medics gently began to check her breathing, patting down her limbs to ensure she had no broken bones. “Yes, princess. Fastest run to date.”

And then she leaned back against the medic behind her, closing her eyes in awe.

* * *

 

Down at the start of the drag strip, one Lotor Dalir suddenly inhaled at the sound of Bob’s increasingly relieved words. Through the crowds, he watched Allura Singh stand tall with the help of a medic and raise her fist. The roar that rose up in support of her deafened the skies, with many nearly jumping the cement barrier to clamor for a better look, to take pictures, to cry out her name.

Lotor’s hands slipped from the cement barrier, only to feel weak and grab for it again. The burning flash of her engine’s explosion had seared into his retinas. He could still see her slamming into the wall.

Just like Alfor.

And then he looked back up at the scoreboards, with Allura Singh’s time and speed still proudly blinking for the world to see. It boasted a number that challenged every other run in the history of the sport, outperforming records set by Alfor Singh and Zarkon Dalir both.

As he stood there, his eyes wide and brows angling hard at the sight, he suddenly felt someone push him aside.

“Move,” cried out a distracted, worried man—and a blur of long legs and brown hair streaked past him, tumbling over the cement barrier, knocking aside a worker to steal his motor bike. “Allura!”

Lotor’s eyes narrowed as he snapped to the intruder.

It was Lance McClain. The boy’s eyes shone bright with tears of absolute, unadulterated fear. He sped down the track, a blur that would challenge even the motorcyclists. “Allura!” he cried. “Allura!”

Down the track, Allura spotted him, nearly falling to her knees in relief. She pulled an oxygen mask away from her reddened face, reaching out to him. From such a distance, Lotor could not hear the words exchanged, but he saw Lance stumble off the motor bike, the boy forgetting about his own hurt arm to reach out to her.  

Lance wrapped himself around her gently, crying against her, and she embraced him, leaning against him for support.

In that moment, the full of the crowd and the camera crews began to snap pictures even more voraciously than before.

The handsome Lotor Dalir remained forgotten in the crowds, simply another bystander as thousands watched Top Fuel’s favorite couple cling to each other. Lotor’s fingers trembled as he took the time to light a cigarette. He breathed in hard, knitting his brows. The hot, nicotine air slipped through him like a warm blanket, whispering comfort to his addled mind. He eventually breathed out, opening his blue eyes to stare at the wreckage of _Blue Lion_ still smoldering on the track. It would be at least a good hour before the races began again. The drag strip workers were in a flutter to sweep up the debris and tow the remaining roll cage off to a side street.

Dozens of media cameramen and women were now snapping shots of the wreckage, with reporters standing before their crew teams to record an announcement about the crash, waving to the wreckage of Allura Singh’s dragster.  

Allura Singh.

The beautiful, virginal spitfire, who could walk out unscathed from a massive explosion, only to be cradled in the arms of another man.

But then a deep female voice—smooth and sultry—whispered into his ear. “Well, well. Look at the _stress_ on your face.” 

Lotor inhaled sharply, opening his eyes to face Merla Falconieri, his fellow pro stock motorcyclist and recurring lover. His voice was rough with emotion and cigarette smoke. “What do you want.”  

Her skin was a pale white, her irises black, her red hair pulled back into her standard high braid. She arched a thin brow and smiled, her dark lips stretching as she leaned against the cement barrier beside him. “I’m watching you have an emotional reaction,” she murmured. “You are worried about this Princess, how fascinating.”

He breathed out a puff of smoke, attempting to school the odd tremble of adrenaline in his fingers. “It was a bad crash.” He forced his voice to smooth into its usual velvet. He turned his blue eyes to Merla, roving over the curvy body he knew so well, wrapped in black leather.

“Others have crashed and died here.” She tilted her head and reached out to run a line down his chest. Her nails glimmered black. “But I’ve never seen you so…upset about it. Tell me, are the rumors true about you having an affair with her?” Her dark lips stretched wider. “It would be such an _amusing_ scandal, especially with how the Cuban boy is sobbing over her right now. Perhaps even proposing. You know how near-death experiences can inspire cute things.”

Lotor grabbed onto her hand, threading his long fingers against her lithe ones. He gently pulled her hand away. Some part of his handsome face remained haunted. “You condescending tone provides no comfort to me.”

She stared down at her empty hand. “We both know comfort is not our forte,” she murmured with a playful pout. “But you just looked _so_ pained. I thought I should try.”

His eyes hardened against her. “You thought to pinpoint a weakness and nothing else.”

“And is that what this rookie is to you?” Merla demanded lightly, staring up with her near-black eyes glinting in the sun. “A weakness?”

“You know I have many,” he retorted. “Among them, the wish to see my father dethroned. The Princess is obviously the most qualified to challenge him, and the one most capable of shaming him. As it stands, she may yet have to forfeit.”

She hummed in delight. “What a wicked son you are, to wish shame and defeat on your father.” 

Like this, her face was inches away from his own, the two of them lost in the chaos of the crowds and the cleanup and all the cameras focused upon Allura Singh and Lance McClain.

“You know why I wish it.” His beautiful voice lowered, his tone edging with danger. “And do not call me wicked, for I am not like you.” 

Merla laughed lightly, flashing sharp, white teeth. “You aren’t?” She leaned up, narrowing her eyes playfully. “Oh, Lotor. You’re upset about not being able to use that poor girl to your advantage. That is rather wicked.” She patted his cheek. “Unless you have other reasons for this frown and so are simply a liar?”

His handsome face twisted, and he pulled away from her clutches, inhaling on his cigarette again. He blew acrid smoke lightly into her face. “I am not in the mood to play your games.”

The beautiful woman did not blink as she tapped her claw-like nails upon the cement. “You are always in a mood,” she murmured. “But never over a woman. How curious this is.” She hummed, her thick, red braid slipping down her shoulder. Her eyes flickered up to his, knowing.

Lotor turned from her entirely, leaning his elbows back on the barrier to ignore her.

“You never answered my question,” Merla whispered in a light threat, her purple lips brushing against the sensitive skin of his ear. “About the scandal between you and her. I’m _dying_ to know.”

He inhaled hard upon his cigarette, desperately seeking the relaxing effect of the nicotine. “There is no scandal.”  

She scoffed and leaned forward. “I know how you think, Lotor. The wrinkle in your brow suggests she is not merely a pawn to you.” Her voice raised in a mocking pout. “Did you sleep with her and not share the juicy details with me?”

Lotor’s handsome face twisted, his brow twitching with irritation. “That is not your business.” He turned to her, his eyes darkening.

Merla tilted her head, her dark eyes narrowing through the crowds to stare at the white and pink figure, who was still ash-soaked and wrapped in the arms of Lance McClain. “She is just as lovely as they say. I can see why you would pursue her.” Her dark lips stretched. “And her little Cuban boy toy is precious as well. What a homewrecker you are, to think of coming between them.”

In that moment, his irritation grew enough that his eyes flashed in a way similar to his father’s—dark and frustrated. Clouds briefly shadowed him, the wind flickering up his white hair. He inhaled hard on his cigarette. “Do not pretend to know my designs,” he threatened lightly, his lips slipping with white smoke.

“Oh, did I strike a nerve?” She leaned her cheek in her hand, arching a red brow. “Come now, you must admit. It would be a great entertainment, for you to ruin the pretty pink princess.” Her dark eyes lowered to his mouth, which she knew well. Her sultry voice tilted with a light, playful moan. “I wouldn’t mind watching it.”

His lips pressed together tightly in increasing anger.

Merla’s braid swung in the wind, her many earrings catching in the light. “But that would suggest you are in fact capable of seducing her. I see now, with how she clings to McClain, that your emotions are not reciprocated.” Her dark lips stretched. “You haven’t slept with her yet. How adorable.”

Lotor turned away from her.

She taunted him further, seeking a reaction. “This princess seems quite fun, if she has stolen your attention and offered nothing in return.” The woman pressed a hand to her heart, where such an organ supposedly beat within her. “I adore anyone who can make you writhe helplessly, like a _worm on a hook_.”

His beautiful, velvet voice strained. “Call me a worm again, and you will find yourself losing more than an open invitation into my bed.”

She pouted playfully. “But sweetheart. If you turn me away—” she patted his cheek— “our families will be _so_ disappointed.” She twisted her fingers into a beltloop on his leather pants, and her voice lifted into a singsong. “Galra Tech won’t get that big business merger, given my…controlling interest in Europe. You know how my board of directors wants assurances that we’ll be equal partners, per Galra’s Tech past.”    

Lotor’s jaw tightened. “Tell your board of directors to place their faith in contracts. The feudal age has been over for centuries.”

“Well. You can’t deny,” she whispered, voice turning with something sultry and wanting, “even your _father_ likes the idea of marrying you off to me.” She tilted her head. “It’s good business to appear so united. And it makes you look far more respectable than you are.”

His skin crawled at the memory of her tongue upon him, her black bar piercing dragging along his skin as she held him down, the pain and pleasure of her nails inspiring his back to arch—

He backstepped against the cement barrier. “Leave me.”

“Very well.” She took a step forward, her eyes narrowing. “In the meantime, go sleep with your princess and your spread-eagled fans. Give them a good time.” She smiled lightly up at him. “But know at the end of the day, _this_ —” she discreetly cupped the front of his pants, squeezing hard, inspiring a gasp from him— “belongs to me.”

The crowds were still in a flurry to snap photos of the sooty but undefeated Allura Singh. No one saw Merla’s hand or the way Lotor’s blue eyes widened, his lips dropping open in desperate need for breath.

In his shock, he’d frozen. He made a strangled noise in the back of his throat, his velvet voice breaking with pain and fury. “You—do not own me. Or Galra Tech.”

“Oh, but I do.” Her dark purple lips stretched. And then, as she squeezed him again, digging in her nails, she stood up on her tip-toes to press a kiss against his neck. “Don’t I.”

“Ngh.” Lotor’s breath hitched as he looked up to the heavens in a plea for mercy, his white hair catching the wind. It was all he could do not to give in to the rhythm of the pain and pleasure she offered him. He grabbed on hard to her wrist, freezing her movements. “Children.” His voice had hoarsened. “Children are…a-and cameras.”

Merla pulled away, her fingers slipping from him. “Worried about reputation? Everyone already knows you’re trash.” And then she stepped back with a haughty fling of her braid. Her voice softened into a sultry tease. “But I like you anyway.”  

With that, Merla turned around, her sleek, whip-like braid nearly striking him in the face. The hourglass of her figure dissipated into the crowd and the smoky air.

As Lotor stood there, the crowds entirely unaware of what had transpired, he remembered to breathe. His skin crawled as his body ached in desire for a demon. It took him several seconds to regain composure, biting his lip hard.

“ _Everyone already knows you’re trash_.”

He lowered his stormy eyes to the ground, focusing upon the dying cigarette he’d dropped during Merla’s bold move. It was then he discovered that the explosion of _Blue Lion_ was still burned deep into his retinas—as if it were a mocking reminder that Allura Singh, with her pink unicorn pajamas and eyes lit with righteousness, was somehow too incompatible to exist in his world.

He looked up and narrowed his eyes through the massive waves of people around him. The crowds cheered for Allura Singh as paramedics helped her onto the ambulance for a more official examination at a hospital. Her body was stiff but proud as she refused the gurney, wiping her face of tears as she stared at _Blue Lion_ one more time, then wildly stared in shock at the scoreboards flashing in her victory.

To distract himself, Lotor briefly daydreamed a reality in which Allura had not crashed and instead had met him at the funnel cake stand secretly, her pretty face flushed with triumph, her hair a wild tangle of flyaways from her run.

“ _I’m here more for the cake than for your advice_ ,” she would have said breathlessly, eyes bright. “ _But I wouldn’t mind smashing more of your father’s records, if you know how._ ”

He might have laughed in delight, his heart soaring to be in her presence, free under the summer sun to tease and praise her equally, and to make her blush from both.

Lotor Dalir, the rich and infamous playboy with the world at his feet, swallowed hard. His throat was tight with frustration and loss for all too many reasons.

* * *

 

Sometime later, after a hospital examination and ride in a cab, Allura found herself back in her room at the _Altea_. It was just her and Lance—with the remainder of Team Voltron forced to stay at the track in hopes of salvaging the remainder of _Red Lion_.  

“Oh,” Allura winced as she sat down on the edge of the bed, leaning against Lance as a support. Her voice was a bit hoarse. “Do you know this still quite smarts.”

Lance’s hands were strong on her shoulders, his eyes red-rimmed from the incident. He gazed at her in worry. “It’s going to be okay,” he murmured softly. “You just need to rest.”

“As do you,” she retorted worriedly, staring up at him as he helped her to lay down. “How is your arm?”

He shrugged. “I just…banged it on the side of _Red_ , when I hit. It’s nothing to worry about. So, whatever you need, just tell me, alright?”

Allura’s breath hitched lightly as she stared up at him. “Of course,” she whispered. She dared to raise up her good arm to reach for his hand. “I’m sorry, Lance. I know you were so scared. I’m so very sorry I worried you.”

He sat down on the edge of her bed, looking worn. “I mean, I know why you did it. If it were me, I would’ve done the same thing.” He tentatively raised his injured arm and weakly waved it. “Ha, I tried to do the same thing.”

Her blue and purple eyes softened. “We are so terribly alike sometimes. Bull-headed, aren’t we.”

“Yeah, except I didn’t break a record, and _you_ did.” Then he leaned forward to grab a paper, which contained instructions from the medical doctor overseeing her care. “I don’t know if I’m jealous, though. Man.”

“I got myself out,” Allura argued. “I didn’t break anything.”

Lance turned his head and gave her a look.

“It was, um,” she said hoarsely, “just a bit of smoke inhalation. And some whiplash and pulled muscles. I was already decelerating when I hit the wall.”

“Yeah, because that makes me feel better,” he muttered, reading over the typed instructions. “You’ve got three hours before you can take more pain meds, right? Can you make it that long?” His face twisted. “Why do they make you wait so long? Why do doctors do this?”

“It’s so you don’t overdose, Lance. Besides, I really just want to get out of this suit.” She whined up at him, giving him doe eyes. “And take a bath.”

His fingers clenched into the paper a bit, his face flushing. “W-well, I mean. Maybe after your next hit of medication. We barely got you to bed. I can’t believe you didn’t even want to go the hospital after that.”

“It looked much worse than it was,” she declared, closing her eyes in a pout. “Although my side does hurt terribly—my harness hit right where it always does, and I’ve got quite a bruise blooming there.”

The nurses had stripped her down to a robe to take scans, offering up some more simple clothes she could wear back to the hotel.  But Allura Singh had been too proud to leave the hospital in anything other than her motor suit. The zipper of her under suit was still oddly cocked from how the nurses had struggled to zip her back up.

Lance was quiet for a second. “How bad is it?”

Allura swallowed hard, staring up at him vulnerably from the bed. “It wasn’t particularly good to begin with.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s just been bothering me the last several runs—I hadn’t had a chance to say much—”

“—Allura,” his voice hardened in worry. “Why didn’t you say something before? Which side?”

She looked sheepish. “Left.”

He bit his lip in worried frustration. “You’re supposed to speak up about stuff like this.”

“It’s such a small thing,” she argued with a miserable pride. “The strap just twists sometimes in the rumble. I wasn’t going to risk a delay at the races for it.”  

“Pidge could have fixed it.” He then looked to the side and grabbed one of the bags of ice Hunk had made her. He wrapped it in one of the towels Pidge had brought down, and he gently placed it against her side, worriedly watching her expression. “Does this feel good?”

The tension in her face relaxed as she closed her eyes, swallowing hard. “Yes,” she whispered. “Thank you, Lance. That helps quite a bit.”

The two fell silent for a time. He swallowed hard as he watched her for a bit, stiffly trying to move the fingers on his banged arm. “I’m serious, ‘Lura. I was so scared I lost you,” he whispered. “Please be careful.”

Allura tiredly opened her eyes, and then she managed a weak smile. “You know how it is, when you want to win.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want you to blow up either.”

She huffed. “But the danger is the _fun_ of it.” With her good arm, she dared to reach out and poke his side. “What’s a crash or two when your spirit, your whole being feels more alive.”

He flinched away. “A crash _or two_?” He whined as he scratched his ticklish side. “That’s the quintessence fumes talking.”

“Those cleared my lungs hours ago.” She waved off his concern weakly. “I am entirely myself.”

Lance pouted, forcing tears to come to his big, doe eyes.

Allura’s face twitched in pain. “Oh, very well. I’ll try to be more careful. But that was certainly a display you put on for the cameras. Now the magazines and newspaper will all think we really are a couple.” Her hoarse voice lightened with merriment. “Perhaps it will overshadow the crash itself.”

Lance huffed in amusement, his eyes softening. “Yeah, maybe. Might help to keep that Lotor guy away from you.”

Her eyes closed again. “I do not think he is so bad,” she whispered. And then she paused. And then her whole body stiffened in horror, her eyes flying open. “Oh dear. Lance. Lance. Oh, no.”

He stood up in a fright, gently trying to help steady her. “What? What’s wrong?”

Her white hair fell down in matted curls against her shoulder as she breathed quickly, and then moaned, leaning against him. “Oh dear, what a mess I made. I was supposed to—” her voice cut off.

She was supposed to meet Lotor Dalir by the funnel cake stand to discuss Zarkon’s racing secrets…nearly two hours ago. She’d even been halfway looking forward to seeing him make over that lassi he’d been begging for and listening to his newest flirtations.

But perhaps it wouldn’t have mattered in the end.

“You were supposed to what,” Lance deadpanned, eyes wide in concern. “You were just in a wreck. All you’re _supposed_ to do is lay down and let other people take care of you.”

She whined against him. “But there is so much to do. I still need to…um, scope out the competition, and find out—”

“—‘Lura,” he cut in. “You don’t even have a dragster to race. Even with all our extra parts, _Blue_ ’s way too warped to get back up and running in time for tomorr—”

And suddenly, there was a knock at the hotel door. “Delivery for Allura Singh!” came the strained voice of a hotel employee. “Actually, _several_ deliveries for Allura Singh!”

Lance gave her a confused look before helping her to sit up against her bed’s pillows. “Hold that thought. I’m so not done being a mom here.”

Allura moaned. “You’re too good at being a mom sometimes, but thank you.” And then she winced, feeling a deep and strange guilt overwhelm her.

Her mind suddenly trailed back to Lotor Dalir standing in the bistro that morning, his handsome face softening into genuine concern, just for her. “ _Be sure your harness does not twist on you this time_.”

Her fingers tightened into the material of her motor suit at the memory of his velvet voice.

“ _Are you mother-henning me, sir?_ ”

“ _Of course, love. After this morning, it is only fair_.”

She wondered if he’d cared at all that she had crashed. The guilt, that her last words to Zarkon had been an insult against Lotor as well, burned her in a way similar to the fires of _Blue Lion_. The argument seemed entirely pointless now, in the face of death.

But perhaps Zarkon would take her more seriously, now that she’d broken his record— _his record_ —and lived to tell about it. Lotor—she did not dare to anticipate what he would do. He was too much of a wild card.

While she pondered, Lance moved to open the room door with his good hand.

And his jaw dropped.

On the other side of the door was an employee with a cart full of gifts from fans and sponsors. It overflowed with “Get well soon” cards and balloons and flowers, with many handwritten notes. Lance stared at it, eyes wide, before he remembered he was in the way. “Uh,” he said, waving the employee in. “Wow. Allura, you seeing this?”

She tried to sit up straighter atop her bed, still holding the ice pack to her side. Her eyes blew wide as the employee wheeled in the large cart. “…Is that all for me?”

The employee nodded and said, “Where should I put these gifts? There’s also a second cart being loaded up now.”

Allura appeared a bit overwhelmed as she stared at the cart. “I suppose, um, could you leave it on the cart for now?”

The young boy nodded and wheeled the presents to her side. “I’ll be back in a bit with the second one, miss.” And then he disappeared from the room, leaving both Lance and Allura to gape.

“Wow,” Lance said, blinking as he leaned down to inspect all the gifts. “Like, wow. Allura.”

A new sort of sparkle glimmered into her eyes at the reminder of the many people who supported her. Her toes wiggled a bit in her socks, and she raised up her arm and made grabby hands, whining up at Lance. “Oh, do please show them to me, one by one. Please, Lance. I want to see all the flowers and the cards.”

Her teammate began to pout as he stared at her. “…How come you get all the gifts, but I got hurt too? Where’s the justice in that?”

She huffed in impatience. “You weren’t in a fireball, and you flirted with the nurses and wiggled your arm at the cameras like a jellyfish. Please, Lance.” She made a grabby hands motion again, fighting through a wince to do it.

He moaned at the thought of laboring through all of her gifts but then sighed playfully. “Oh, all right. But just for you.”  

And so, one by one, he handed her cards and raised up flowers for her to inspect, placing things around the room where she requested. Many cards were quickly written notes from fans at the raceway, some of them drawings from little children. The sooty, achy Allura upon the bed began to forget about her pains as she giggled over the drawings, teared up at the sketches of _Blue Lion_ , and cooed over the kind words from her fans. She also discovered several notes from sponsors pledging increased funds for the next racing year, offering well wishes to both herself and to Lance for their enduring spirits.

“Oh,” she said, eyes wide as she looked up from one particular letter. “Lance, did you read this? Because I broke the time record, that means I shall receive a plaque commemorating it. Something I can place in my father’s— _my_ trophy room.” She blinked happily, tears in her eyes. “What great news.”

But her teammate was hardly listening, instead puzzling over the last few items on the cart.

“Lance?”

He startled a bit, looking up at her sheepishly. “Sorry.” Then he pressed his lips together and offered her a small package, which was tied with a bow. “This is yours too. It’s, uh—from that Lotor Dalir guy.”

Allura paused at that, staring at the package in consternation and curiosity. “From him? Truly?” Brows knitting together, she made grabby hands again, the excitement of all the support making her forget all of her pulled muscles. “I want to see what it is.”

He set the box down in her lap, and she pulled on the pink bow. It unraveled into a river of silk ribbon in her dirty fingers, and she felt almost guilty about smearing it with her fingerprints. But then she pulled aside the cover and peered into the box.

With a strange awe, she lifted up a singular amaryllis flower, perfectly cut to fit in the box, its end encased in a small tube of water to maintain its life. “Curious.” And then she pulled up a small white card, with _Miss Allura Singh_ handwritten upon it.

She opened up the card to see more of the same handwriting—a sweeping, bold style that leaned just slightly, as if he had written it in a rush. _Please consider my enclosed design when rebuilding for your next race. I may be horrid and impossible, but I never want to see you hurt. Stay safe, princess. – L_

“Horrid and impossible,” she echoed, almost in a squeak. “Oh, dear. He’d heard me.” A shuttering of guilt stormed through her again as her face flushed. “How awkward.”

Lance took a brief glace at the note and then deadpanned, “I mean, he’s not disagreeing with you.”

She could almost hear the backhanded pout in Lotor’s words, the extra press of the pen upon those words suggesting they had very much stung him. “I’m not sure he appreciated it either.”

“…The rest of us did,” the boy said lightly. “It was a good burn. Pidge and I totally fist-bumped over it.”

Allura made a noise of embarrassment as stared at the letters, noting with a bit of a flush that even the card seemed to smell of Lotor Dalir—his terribly good-smelling cologne, whatever it was, and a hint of cigarette smoke. If Lance were not right beside her, she might have considered raising the note to her nose to consider what exactly his cologne was. Spicy? Woodsy?

“Design,” she said with a strained voice, knitting her brows as she desperately sought distraction, lowering the letter. “An enclosed design, he said.” She reached back down into the box and pulled out a neatly folded paper.

When she unfolded it, her eyes settled upon an original sketch, signed by Lotor Dalir at the bottom, his signature sharp and striking.

It was a schematic of a harness to fit into a dragster.

For her.

“Oh,” she breathed, her full lips dropping open and eyes widening as she stared at the schematic. At the bottom was another note. _Estimated measurements for harness with adjustable straps. Recommendation: Team Voltron will need to measure driver to ensure best fit._

_Sincline LLC to build anytime at the request of driver._

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, staring at the sweeping lines with great awe. The harness was a sleek collection of lines that inspired tears in her eyes. “Lance, look at this. Look at what he designed and gave to me even though I called him horrid and impossible.”

The boy leaned over against the bed, narrowing his eyes and scratching his chin. “Looks like a safety restraint.”

“I know,” she cried happily. “Isn’t that fantastic. Look at the foam padding lining the straps. The material he suggests here—It blocks heat, even. And it has a stretch to decrease the brunt of the g-force.”

He tilted his head. “…I’m not gonna lie. I did not expect him to give you something like this.” He laughed, almost nervously. “Whew, I was thinking it’d be something way worse and creepy. This is like, actually useful.”

“It is,” Allura said, laying down the schematic upon her lap, tracing the lines where Lotor had drawn. It was all so life-like. His attention to detail was impeccable. Admirable. “What a strange man he is. He’s the last person I would expect to offer something practical. And yet he was the only one to do so.” Her eyebrows knitted. And for him to design something so complex in just a few hours since her crash…

…that seemed a bit impossible. She wondered if, somehow, he had been working on this even before her crash. The thought inspired a questioning flush upon her face.

She could still feel the heavy weight of Lotor’s gaze as he stared at her from across the hot tub, eyes dark with concern. “ _Did someone do that to you?_ ”

Lance scoffed. “Hey, I’m here helping you.”

She looked up, torn from her thoughts, and patted his hand. “Oh, well, I mean aside from you, of course.”

He sniffed and looked a bit self-impressed. “Of course.” He paused. “But…even with the schematic, you won’t be able to use this harness for a while.” He flailed his hands. “You’re still kinda missing the whole dragster you’d need for the harness.”  

The woman tapped her fingers on the paper, hesitating for a time. “I’ve only ever raced in _Blue_ ,” she whispered. “And I love her and want to see her rebuilt. But…” She looked up at Lance and admitted, “I do have another dragster I could use for now. And I could fit a redesigned harness in it.”

The boy stared at her in paused surprise. “…Wait. What?”

* * *

                                                                      

After Allura’s crash, the air at the raceway carried a particular somberness, as if both the fans and the teams suddenly recalled the fragility of life and the danger of the sport. It was all so easy to forget when things were running well.

When everyone felt immortal in the moment.

Zethrid was helping Lotor to pull on his gloves in a mad flurry to prepare him for his race. His eyes stared out at the now-clean drag strip, with a dark pile of warped metal pushed off into the grass. Several people with cameras still milled around the carcass of the _Blue Lion_ in morbid curiosity.

“Zethrid,” he said, his beautiful voice straining with a distant frustration. “Darling, I have not yet sent mother a postcard this week. It is very important I do so.”

“There’s still like, three days of competition,” she deadpanned, eyeing him curiously. “You got time.”

“Yes, but we never know how much time we have, love.” His brows knitted. “I should have done it first thing. I have been distracted by so much. She is probably worried. You know how she likes my postcards.” His voice raised in stress. “She always receives one by the second day of competition. Perhaps I could express ship it.”

“Yeah, yeah. She probably knows you’ve been chasing tail and got too busy.”  

“I very much want to get a postcard that shows the Olkari skyline,” he said suddenly. “She loves skylines. Says they are the soul of city, and she is quite right, I think.”

“…Why are you telling me this?”

“Just in case I crash, and you need to buy a postcard for me.”

Zethrid rolled her eyes and gruffly pushed him forward. “Stop being melodramatic and get on the damn bike. You’ll be fine.”

He huffed and pouted, his steel-toed boots skidding on the asphalt. “You do not know that for certain. Look at you. Would you even mourn me if I crashed? The entire Voltron team cried for Miss Singh, and yet you simply shove me to my death.”

Her face twisted. “Oh my god, are you actually letting this get to you?”

“We racers are the gladiators of the modern age,” he declared passionately. “Risking life and limb to defy human limitation and to achieve godhood. Blood sacrifices are inevit—”

She stuffed his headscarf into his mouth, making his voice strangle into a muffle, his blue eyes crossing to stare at the scarf. His face twisted, and he spat the material out in disgust—it tasted of his sweat and hair gel.

“Your poetry sucks,” she deadpanned. “And you’ve only ever crashed once.” She leaned in, narrowing her eyes. “You telling me you suddenly don’t have the balls to ride your wife into oblivion?”

The handsome man gave her a dark look as he worked to pull back his hair. “Zethrid. Love. I can think of no better way to die than that. I simply ask that in the event, you express more fondness for me than you currently portray.”  

“…This _is_ me showing fondness,” she retorted, brows furrowing.

Lotor grumbled under his breath. He tied the scarf tight, shoving in a few flyaways. “You do not speak to Ezor or Acxa like this.”

“This is a different kind of fondness.” And then she stepped back, grabbing onto his helmet. “You get enough of that lovey dovey shit from other people.”  

He pouted as he grabbed onto the Sincline bike’s handles, swinging his leg over the side. “I disagree. The only one who offers me unconditional love is the wife, and even then she never seeks me out herself.” 

“…That’s because it’s a bike,” Zethrid deadpanned. “It can’t love."

Lotor gave her an even harder pout and gently rubbed the side of his bike. “Do not listen to her,” he comforted the machine. “I know what you are, love. She is just jealous of our relationship.”

“Oh, sure. I’m real jealous of how you’re talking to an inanimate object.” 

His blue eyes narrowed. Then he sniffed haughtily as he grabbed his helmet from her hands with a bit of a snap. As he settled it over his head, he declared passionately, “If I die on the track today, tell my father I think his purple highlights are tacky but precious for the reason he wears them. Tell mother I love her. Tell Miss Singh I adore her even though she misunderstands me. Tell Merla I hope she rots in hell in a vat of asparagus. And tell my fans that my spirit soars with them every time they start an engine.”

Ezor came up behind them in the middle of his declaration, her eyebrows knitting. “Um, what’s he going on about?”

“Fuck if I know. He’s not been acting right since the princess crashed.”

 “…He’s not been acting right since he was born, what are you talking about.”

Zethrid snorted. “Good point.” And the two fist-bumped.

But Lotor did not hear them. He brushed his fingers along the wife’s body once before determinedly inserting the key and switching the engine to life. Suddenly, it felt as if he’d smoked an entire pack of cigarettes and slept with a goddess. He bit his lip in delight of the noise, his blood rising in desire to be reunited with the wife, surging as one with her toward the Olkari horizon.

This, he knew, was the sweet seduction—the ultimate love affair that whispered in the ears of every racer in history.

The wife purred to him as he locked the emergency engine-shut-off tether to the loop in his suit. He leaned in as he did so, knitting his brows as if it were a religious experience.  

Like this, the bike would not run without him, shutting down in the event he were unseated from her.  

Lotor’s blue eyes raised up as he revved the engine, gazing upon the distant wreckage of _Blue Lion._ He was in the same lane Allura had crashed in. That Allura had broken a record in. “We are in a good lane, love,” he murmured to the bike. “I feel her energy.”

And then he turned to his left to stare at his opponent.

His face tightened, his lips pulling down.

At that time, the announcer Bob began to call out over the grandstands, “And our next racers in the pro stock motorcycle circuit include the beautiful but deadly Merla Falconieri in Lane 1, riding her famous Starcutter motorcycle for Galra Tech. Hailing from Sicily, Falconieri is in her third season of racing and is a previous winner of the international championship title.”

The woman wore a taut black leather motor suit, with Galra Tech purple outlining her curves. She leaned down upon Starcutter, which glimmered gold. She revved her engine, which was a deep snarl compared to the high-whine snap of Lotor’s Sincline bike.

“In Lane 2 is the man who needs no introduction. You know him by name alone. The one and only Lotor Dalir, everyone.”

He jauntily lowered his visor with a snap and leaned forward. The crew members soaked the back tires of the bikes, and he lightly leaned left to right, shifting the bike into third gear. Then he popped the clutch and held the brake to smoke his tires. He surged forward lightly, the wife breathing out a billow of smoke in a whine of delight.

“Almost there, darling," he breathed to her in a tight murmur, feeling the bike's shaking desire to unleash itself. 

Soon enough, in the blur of the burnout and the reversal to the staging light, he found himself waiting for the lights to turn green. His heart pounded with every revolution of the engine.

He was so close.

So close.

And then every cell in his body tightened in joy as the light turned green, in want for the release to ultimate freedom. His body streamlined down as the front of the bike raised, the wheelie bars slamming hard to the asphalt. He tightened his thighs in, his every muscle clamping hard to stay atop the machine.

The entire world warped into lines.

He and Merla shot off like blurs, his high-whine motor shrieking through the gears as hers snarled back.

The scoreboard lit up on Merla’s end as they stormed by.

But for those brief seconds, he felt as if he were one with the universe again, experiencing a cosmic rebirth in the simple purity of the g-force. Of physics. As he coasted down, heart pounding and body trembling, he raised up and turned his head to the sky, his white brows knitting together as he savored his only true euphoria.

He wondered, as his breath hitched, if Allura Singh had felt fear during her crash, or if she’d still felt high as her world fragmented to pieces.

* * *

 

Later that night, after Allura had taken more pain medication and bathed, she found herself lying in bed, wearing a loose shirt and sweatpants, her hair bundled by a pink ribbon atop her head, courtesy of a worried Romelle. “Oh, dear,” she murmured, her white brows knitting as she watched the news, biting her lip. She reshuffled the ice pack upon her side, her fingers digging into the material.

On the big TV screen opposite her bed was a recap of her argument with Zarkon Dalir, compiled with her crash.

A sportscaster was speaking, waving his hand airily. “—A perfect reason why rookies like Allura Singh should not make it to international championships. She’s tenacious, sure, but she’s just not ready for the big leagues. She may have cost team Voltron a chance at the title.”

Another sportscaster was actively standing at the raceway, right in front of the _Blue Lion_ wreckage that had been pulled off into the grass. “Based off some interviews with Galra Tech here at the track, I’m inclined to think that this wreck behind me is the direct result of how flustered she’d been shortly before her run, when she’d confronted Zarkon Dalir. What do you think, Bob?”

Allura’s eyes narrowed. “How ridiculous,” she pouted at the TV. “I crashed because the track was slippery, you idiot.”  

On the TV was the infamous raceway announcer, Bob. He was a slight little man, with a bald head and big eyes. But his voice was a smooth radio tone. He raised his hands. “This was the worst crash we’ve had this whole season,” he admitted. “And we’ve had fist-fights break out between drivers before a run without a crash afterward. One of the things that makes a successful driver is the skill to clear one’s head during the run. I don’t think this crash was about emotion.”

“Ha,” she taunted the TV. She waved her remote stiffly in triumph. “You see, Bob knows. He knows what he is talking about, yes.”

“Given that Team Voltron’s crew chief, Coran Smthye, has refused to comment on the crash, what do you think caused it, then?”

Bob’s small face stretched with a laugh. “Top Fuel teams deal with more variables than nuclear power plants and space stations. The real question you should be asking is whether Allura Singh is tough enough to get back in a dragster.”

“Do you think she is? That crash had a lot of similarities to what took her father’s life a decade ago.”

Allura bit her lip, a sting souring her triumph. It was never good to listen to a bunch of sportscasters debate on her value to the sport—no matter how well Romelle could work media, there were always those who desired nothing more than to watch Allura Singh fail like her father.

As the announcers expressed a mix bag of optimism and pessimism for her future, Allura received a text. She flinched in surprise at the merry beep from her phone.

And then she read the message.

_Got your voicemail. On way. ETA 2 hours._

In that second, she completely forgot about the TV, her eyes widening in delight as she squealed. She gently pushed aside her ice pack, staring down at her messy self before beginning to blush. “Oh dear,” she said to herself. “Two hours. Only two hours.”  

Hesitantly, she raised her good arm to sniff herself, struggling to remember if she’d put on deodorant. Then, with a wince, she raised her arm to the top of her head, pulling the ribbon from her hair. Her thick curls fell in a bounce. “Ooh, what should I wear. Why does it matter. It doesn’t. Why am I doing this to myself.”  

* * *

 

Two hours later, one Allura Singh was passing by the pool and exercise room of the _Altea_ , having managed to wiggle her way into somewhat respectable jeans and a jacket. She still walked slowly and stiffly, with several leg muscles sore. She was working to carefully text the rest of her team to meet her at the raceway.

But as she looked up, her bright eyes could not help but stare through the windows of the exercise room.

One Lotor Dalir was running on a treadmill, his hair up in a messy ponytail and lithe torso naked, the rest of him covered by a pair of tight, designer running pants. Allura’s eyes fixated upon the man in the window, watching the sleek muscle of his bare back flex with every graceful movement of his body.

She dared to look down further to the taut muscle of his rear and then looked away, blushing a bit in shame of herself, that she would admire anything about Lotor Dalir. She could see it now, that knowing little smirk stretching those kissable lips of his as he murmured to her, “ _You are welcome to look at me anytime, princess. I can provide more private viewings as well_.”

Allura nearly made a strangled noise in the back of her throat, afraid to consider that she had a Lotor Dalir voice in her head now. She quickly forced herself forward, her face in a flush.

_Not good, not good, not good—_

* * *

 

In the exercise room, Zethrid was lifting weights, her dark arms bulging with muscle as she lifted the heavy metal. Her eyes flickered up to the window as Allura Singh passed, and she lowered her weights.

At that moment, one curious Lotor Dalir turned his head to follow her gaze.

Immediately, he caught a glimpse of Allura Singh, and his blue eyes widened in surprise. The shock of seeing her walking about, so soon after her crash—an ethereal image in the hallway—made his limbs forget that he was in fact on a moving treadmill. The handsome man stopped running, simply watching the mysterious and powerful woman walk by—

—And then the next thing he knew, his vision tilted, his long, graceful limbs buckling as the world swept up from under him. He flailed out an arm to catch onto a nearby rail, barely saving himself as his sneakers skidded onto the carpet, his muscles flexing to correct himself.

Then the great Lotor Dalir paused to the sound of Zethrid’s open, hearty guffaws of laughter.

He straightened up quickly, his chest heaving with stalled breath from his run and near fall.  

“How did—?” He huffed with a strain of embarrassment, then looked back to the window, which was now empty. “Did you see that?”   

“Oh, I saw it.”  

He slicked back a wild lock of hair that had straggled into his eyes, face tense. “No, I mean, did you see that _Miss Singh_ was in fact walking down this hall?” He seemed almost entirely unaware of his most ungraceful stumble. He moved toward the window, voice lifting in awe as he planted his hands against the glass. “As if she had not even crashed. Remarkable.”  

Zethrid’s lips were still split wide. She began to lift her weights again. “You know, you’d make a great vine. ‘What up. I’m Lotor, I’m 27, and I never fucking learned how to walk.’” 

His lips pulled down in a frown, and he retorted lightly, “I know how to walk. Rather gracefully, I might add.”

She raised a brow. “You forgot you were on a fucking treadmill. Nothing about that is graceful.” She pumped her iron, her dark muscles bulging with the effort as she stared at him in great amusement. “Idiot.”

“...Idiot? Tell that to my billion-dollar patents. Or to the massive increase in shareholder stocks for Galra Tech, no thanks to interest in _my_ designs.”

“You just got goo-goo eyes for a girl and almost fell flat on your face.” Another pump of iron. “Never seen that before with you.”

He ran a frazzled hand through his hair, his handsome face tinging with a blush of shame as his nose wrinkled. “I do not make eyes,” he pouted. His heart was pounding, for all too many reasons. He turned to look for Allura Singh again, only to see the ghost of her image had disappeared entirely.

“…She’s not even your type. Why the hell are you tripping over her, anyway?” Zethrid raised a dark brow. “Got a thing for popping cherries? Ruining good girls?”

Lotor pressed his lips together. Deep in his soul, he still felt the anxiety of the crash and the dirt upon him from not only Merla manipulating him, but for the way he’d still sought the company of one Miss 7.5 after his race to try and get rid of his anxious energy. It hadn’t helped, which was a recurring problem as of late. His voice strained. “Miss Singh,” he eventually said, “is a woman of both great beauty and integrity. It is so very rare for me to see that.”

“Meaning?”

He leaned his arms against the treadmills handle bars, still a bit breathless. “You know how people are. So many men and women either pretend to be innocent or pretend to be experienced.” His brows knitted. “Miss Singh has no quarrel with what she is and feigns no deceptions. She knows what she wants, and she is gutsy enough to openly defy my father for it.” The handsome man bit his lip as he leaned his sweaty cheek against his arm, squishing his many flyaways against his dark skin. “I feel it in my soul, Zethrid. She is so.” His face twisted in want for words. He raised his hand, and then it helplessly fell to his side. “She is so—”

The woman set down her heavy weights, breathing a bit harder herself as she eyed her long-time friend. “—Oh my god, please tell me you’re not trying to make poetry.”

“No, love,” he cut in, waving his hand airily in a bit of exhaustion. “Poetry is for the wife. You asked me a question, and I am attempting to answer it.”

She grabbed onto her sweat towel, wiped her face, and then eyed the way his back end stuck out a bit from his slump. She twisted her towel and then slapped his rear with it, inspiring him to make a noise of indignation and glare at her. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. You got a crush on the princess.”

His earring jingled in the light as he tilted his head at her. His white brows scrunched. “I do not.”

Zethrid’s dark eyes narrowed in disbelief. “Seriously? We gonna have this argument now?”

“I do not get crushes,” he said flatly, face twisting in dislike of the word. He grabbed for his phone. “That is a word reserved for school children. And you know very well what I am.”

“A slut crushing on miss lollipop princess, who knows you’re nasty?”

He raised his eyes to her, glaring.

Zethrid raised a brow. “You’re better off having some hoe role-play with you.”

His voice was a murmur as he distractedly checked his phone messages. “That would rather defeat the purpose.” His face twisted in a pout.

“The princess looks like she puts out for serious relationships only. So you’re screwed anyway.”

He mumbled under his breath.

“You’re still fucking the Merla chick.” Zethrid’s head tilted. “Can she play pretty in pink?” 

Lotor eyed her in disbelief. “She would combust into flames if she tried.”  

The woman huffed at him. “Well, I don’t know what you wanna do. But you can’t be tripping off treadmills and swooning every time you see the princess.” She wiped her forehead of sweat. “It’s pathetic.”

Lotor’s voice raised. “Oh, look.” His voice strained in want to change the topic. “I have just checked my Stumblr, and it appears with the recent purge of adult content, they’ve flagged several of my photos.”

“…I see what you’re doing. You can’t escape this conversation forever.”

His voice strained further, his eyebrows knitting. “But it appears they have flagged only pictures with my face and my hands.”

“Valid move. Those things really aren’t safe for work,” Zethrid deadpanned. “Also, you have a crush on the princess like a little school boy.”

A more genuine confusion overtook him, and a mischief snuck into his face. “Their purge somehow overlooked my near-nudity pictures.”

“Wait, what?”

He flipped the phone around and shoved it into her face, his velvet voice lifting in amusement. “They even flagged the one of me eating strawberries, but not the one where I am lying on the table—you know, for that fundraiser.”   

Zethrid’s dark eyes narrowed at it. “…Seriously, they flagged your hands but not your nips?”

Lotor sniffed haughtily. “Stumblr has confirmed what society has always known, Zethrid. My nipples are sacred, my body is a temple.” He raised a brow. “Aside from my hands, which is fair enough, I suppose.”

She lightly swung her sweat towel at him again. “As if you need your ego to swell any more than it already has. I won’t be able to fit you through doors now, great.”  

“Me and my sacred body fit through doors just fine.” His lips stretched as he typed away on his phone. In his delight of the social platform’s failure to accurately flag mature content, he switched his blog name from _official-lotor-dalir_ to _thesacrednips_.

As he did so, his face briefly lifted with genuine humor for a time, as if for that singular moment, all was right in the world, and he had not a care to his name. “I do wonder,” he murmured, “if Miss Allura Singh has a Stumblr account as well.”

“Don’t go there. Don’t do it.”  

“I am going there, Zethrid.” His white brows puzzled in merry concentration, his mind now set upon a mission. “I imagine it is pink and full of unicorns. She is rather precious like that.”

“She doesn’t even like you.” The woman waved her hand in frustration. “She’s gonna block your ass, and then you’re gonna whine to _me_ about it.”

His blue eyes flickered up to Zethrid, and he momentarily debated revealing that he had made plans to meet with Allura and had even designed her a harness and sent it to her—in hopes of it being a peace offering. He decided against it, in case the gift had not softened Singh’s heart.

“Oh, hush, Zethrid.” He sniffed delicately as he continued to scroll through the blogs in his search. “You never know how one might change.”

* * *

 

The Olkari Raceway was mostly abandoned, with all of the crowds and most of the pit crews gone for the evening. A few racing teams remained siloed in their tents, rebuilding from their own minor disasters.

The bruised but undefeated Allura Singh stood in the pits by her tent, flanked by her teammates—even the mysterious Keith Kogane, who’d finished up some last-minute touches to his pro stock motorcycle.

“Okay,” Hunk said wearily, “someone tell me why we’re standing out here after dark? We just got done welding a new wing on _Red_ , and I haven’t even eaten yet. Like, it’s way past burrito time. “

Keith, a tall man with dark hair, crossed his arms over his red and white jacket. He huffed. “I got you and Pidge hamburgers three hours ago.”

“Yeah, that was three hours ago. I’ve seen things since then, Keith.” He raised his stained fingers. “My hands _resurrected a beast,_ okay?”

The boy rolled his eyes. “They’re not beasts; they’re machines.”

“Metaphor, Keef. Metaphor.”

Keith turned away. “Allura, you said you wanted to show us something? Is this the new dragster Lance was babbling about?” 

“Hey,” Lance cut in, hurt. “I don’t babble.”

To his right, Romelle lightly patted his shoulder. “You babble.”

Allura gave Keith a cheerful but tense look, trying not to wring her hands. “Yes, I did have something to show you. I wanted you all to see it to avoid any…questions later. You see, when I first began to resurrect Team Voltron, I wanted all five dragsters back in commission. But we did not have the funds for it, and there were other sensitivities to consider as well. My legal and financial team recommended _Red_ and _Blue Lion_ , on the basis of crowd popularity. _Red_ was an obvious choice. _Blue_ was a safe one.”

Up ahead, a Team Voltron semitrailer appeared in the distance.

“But you know how legal teams squabble,” Allura confessed nervously. “It took some time for them to agree on anything other than _Red_ , which is why only Lance ran last year. Coran and I meanwhile had to begin modifications on another dragster if we wanted me to join this season. So we took out a loan to update the two in contention.” She waved her hand at the nearing semitrailer. “This is the other dragster.”

Coran pulled on his moustache, looking worried. “Are you certain this is a good idea? After all, we received numerous—”

“—I know, Coran. But I do not see another option if I wish to stay in this race. And you know how the lawyers were. They were more concerned about image than anything else.”

The large Team Voltron semitrailer pulled up to the Voltron tents, its headlights blinding them all briefly.

Allura’s full lips pressed together in anticipation. Her heart began to pound.

And then the engine shut off, and the driver’s door opened.  A tall, muscled man dropped down. He had a thick head of hair that was pure white. But his handsome face carried no wrinkles besides a tension line between his brows. His right arm was full-metal prosthetic—slimmer than his true build, ending with a gripping hook as a hand. “Allura,” he greeted, his lips stretching in a great relief at the sight of her standing up and whole.

“Shiro,” she said happily, stiffly moving forward and raising her arms. Her face flushed at the sight of him.  

He gathered her up in a gentle hug. “I was so worried when I heard about the crash,” he admitted, pulling away to search her eyes. “When you called and left me that message after that, I—” His voice trailed off. “I had to sit down.”

Somewhere on the man’s phone was a saved voicemail of one Allura Singh saying, “ _Hi, it’s me. I sort of, um, wrecked Blue? But don’t worry, I’m quite alright. I just desperately need another dragster. Would you be willing to drop off the one in storage_?”

Allura’s eyes softened as she stared up at him. “You know I’m much stronger than what news channels would have everyone think,” she teased lightly.

Lance’s eyes narrowed curiously at the blush upon her face.

And then Allura more fully turned to the team. “Friends, this is Takashi Shirogane. My father and his father were old colleagues. Shiro won the international title several years in a row, under the Garrison LLC team. Now, he runs his own business as a parts supplier and mechanic for racing, and he teaches racing classes with his husband.” She nudged his side fondly. “He’s been hiding something for me since earlier this year.”

“Anything for you, princess,” he murmured, face softening. He waved his prosthetic arm to the team. “Nice to meet you all.”

Keith’s jaw was still dropped. “Wait, wait. Shirogane? As in, _the_ Shirogane?”

The older man raised his hands up in a friendly shrug, his handsome face lifting with a smile. “You make me sound important. I’m just a has-been.”

“Dude.” Keith began to sputter, nudging Hunk and Lance. “You went up against Zarkon Dalir and won four years out of five. That’s like—like _badass_. Man, you were, like, my favorite racer. You inspired me to even _start_ racing.”

Lance leaned over to whisper in Hunk’s ear, “You ever heard Keith say more than seven words at a time?”

“No way, man.” Hunk’s eyes had blown wide in shock. “This is a record. Keith’s a fanboy, wow.”

Shiro’s golden eyes landed on the biker. “I recognize you. Kogane, right? Pro stock bike?” He held out his human hand to shake. His wedding finger glimmered with a ring. “Allura had me do some welding work on your first rig back in the day. Nice to meet you.”

Keith shook his hand, a little starstruck. “Uh, likewise.” He kept shaking Shiro’s hand. “Wow.”

Shiro casually allowed him to keep shaking his hand while he turned back to Allura. “Heard you broke Zarkon’s time record today,” he said, a smile stretching his lips. “I bet the guy hated that.”

She flushed again, preening under the attention despite the pain in her body and a desperate wish for more aspirin. “Well, he’s not said anything yet. But I imagine he does dislike being unseated.” She smiled with a glint in her eye. “Even though I crashed, I think it was worth it.”

The man gave her an amused, fond look. “It’s about time someone else gave him a run for his money.”

She clapped her hands together with nervous excitement. “Speaking of, shall we show them?”  

“You bet. I just need my hand back.”

Keith suddenly let go, sputtering a bit in his starstruck haze. “Uh, sorry.”

Shiro spun keys from his back pocket and gave him a smile. “No worries, kid.”

Allura stood back, eyes hard with anticipation as Shiro unlocked the semitrailer. Each lock made a sharp ring. The man added as he worked, “By the way, I called up the Top Fuel association and had one of their representatives look over the dragster. Its specs comply with all the rules—so you’re clear to race this in place of _Blue_.”

The heavy doors swung open.           

The team looked in.

And there, gleaming in the darkness, was the _Black Lion_ dragster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, all. So this was a monster update. But I hope you enjoyed it! 
> 
> While I’ve been working on writing, several others have been working on creative pieces for AR as well: 
> 
> 1.) Brimful-of-giggles drew [Lotor and Allura on vacation](https://the-lightning-strikes-again.tumblr.com/post/181741998839/fanart-for-a-fanfic-au-adrenalin-rush-bless-you) and [another cute shot of Lotor and Allura](https://the-lightning-strikes-again.tumblr.com/post/181926063104/adrenaline-rush-twitter-shenanigans-part-1).
> 
> 2.) Gyodragon drew [Merla with Lotor](https://the-lightning-strikes-again.tumblr.com/post/182347675964/gyodragon-human-merla-from-adrenaline-rush-i), [an angsty Lotor and Zethrid](https://the-lightning-strikes-again.tumblr.com/post/181628228579/gyodragon-angst-scene-between-zethrid-and-lotor) based off a side AR drabble of mine called Fallout, [the chapter 2 hot tub Dalingh scene](https://the-lightning-strikes-again.tumblr.com/post/181365185479/gyodragon-how-i-imagine-allura-singhs-eyes), [a shirtless Lotor Dalir](https://the-lightning-strikes-again.tumblr.com/post/181365135614/gyodragon-please-tumblr-please-dont-kill-dalir), and [Zarkon Dalir](https://the-lightning-strikes-again.tumblr.com/post/181791616444/gyodragon-a-zarkon-dalir-design-hes-hot-okay). 
> 
> 3.) Gracie-buns-art drew [some sensual Dalingh with an animated Kova](https://the-lightning-strikes-again.tumblr.com/post/181440992769/gracie-buns-art-kova-is-king-and-is-my-fav-in), as well as [a Fallout animation](https://the-lightning-strikes-again.tumblr.com/post/182194166224/gracie-buns-art-lotor-dalir-from), [Lotor Dalir with and without facial hair](https://the-lightning-strikes-again.tumblr.com/post/181497344719/gracie-buns-art-imagines-lotor-dalir-with-a), and [Dalingh side profiles by the fences](https://the-lightning-strikes-again.tumblr.com/post/181628870254/gracie-buns-art-another-adrenaline-rush-inspired). 
> 
> 4.) And some people have already created Tumblr role-play blogs for [Allura Singh](https://singhracing.tumblr.com/) and [Lotor Dalir](https://thesacrednips.tumblr.com/)! It looks like they’re already having fun with this too, haha. They are accepting asks as well! 
> 
> I’m so thankful for the support and for the time/effort creative minds have put into AR art/blogs. I feel humbled! 
> 
> Please let me know your thoughts on this latest chapter in a review. Thanks for reading!


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